Page 36 of Marrying the Savage

My hand slides from her hair to the back of her neck, holding her exactly where I want her while I take her mouth again, deeper, rougher, swallowing the soft sound she makes when my teeth catch her lower lip.

She tastes too sweet for this place. Too alive.

Too mine for a woman who was standing beside another man at the altar less than five minutes ago.

That thought should disgust me. Instead, it turns something in me vicious.

I drag my mouth from hers and hear her inhale sharply, as if the absence of me hurts. Her head falls back against the wall, veil twisted around her shoulders, throat exposed, pulse racing beneath delicate skin. I look at that spot for one second too long.

Then I lower my mouth to it.

Her whole body jerks when my lips touch her neck. “Damir,” she breathes.

The sound of my name from her mouth does something violent to my restraint.

I bite. I soothe the bite with my tongue, then do it again, lower this time, where her throat meets the edge of her wedding gown. The lace hides nothing from me. Not her shiver. Not the way her breathing breaks. Not the way her body presses closer, confused and hungry and furious with herself for wanting this.

I lift my head and look at her. Her lips are swollen from mine. The mark on her neck is already blooming faintly pink beneath my mouth.

Christ. She is going to be a problem. A terrible one.

A beautiful one.

Behind us, someone shouts my name. Mikhail. The warning in his voice cuts through the blood in my head.

I look toward the passage, then back at the bride.

Her bridegroom is down somewhere behind us. Her uncle is armed and furious. Her invitation sits crushed beneath Sergei Antonov’s shoe. And Sofia Antonova is against the wall in front of me, mouth red from mine, wedding dress ruined, no longer looking like a sacrifice.

She looks like the beginning of a much better war.

I take her hand.

She looks down at our joined fingers, then up at me. “What are you doing?” she asks.

I pull her away from the wall. “What you invited me to do.”

Her eyes narrow. “I didn’t invite you to manhandle me.”

“No,” I say, leading her toward the side exit as gunfire cracks again behind us. “You invited me to a wedding.”

I open the door with one hard shove. Cold air rushes in.

I look back at her once.

“So I am taking the bride.”

7

SOFIA

Before I can decide whether to slap him or kiss him again, Damir takes my wrist and pulls me away from the wall.

“Wait,” I snap, stumbling because one of my shoes is gone, my veil is half-torn, and apparently being kissed senseless in a side corridor does not improve balance.

He doesn’t slow down. Men like Damir Volodin probably don’t slow down for weather, bullets, or basic human requests.

“Where are you taking me?” I demand.