Page 45 of Marrying the Savage

He’s already watching me. Winter-gray eyes. Merciless. Patient.

Waiting to see whether I will run again.

I lift my chin. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Let’s get this over with.”

Damir’s mouth curves faintly.

Not a smile. Something worse. Something that says he knows exactly what I’m doing and intends to let me pretend otherwise for now.

He takes my hand again.

The minister opens the book with trembling fingers.

The church smells of roses, smoke, blood, and fear.

And I stand beside Damir Volodin at the altar, wearing a wedding dress meant for another man, with that man bleeding on the floor, while the priest prepares to marry me to the enemy I invited.

9

DAMIR

The priest’s hands shake so badly the pages of his book whisper against each other.

Good. A man should tremble when he realizes God is not the most dangerous presence in his church.

Sofia stands beside me in another man’s wedding dress, her hand caught in mine, her veil crooked around her shoulders and the mark of my mouth blooming against her throat. She looks pale beneath the careful bridal makeup, but not broken. Not submissive. Not even properly afraid.

Furious, yes.

Shaken, certainly.

But her chin remains lifted, her spine straight, her eyes fixed ahead as if she can force the entire church to behave by sheer stubbornness.

Beautiful girl. Reckless girl.

Mine now.

The thought moves through me with a savage satisfaction I don’t bother denying. It’s not civilized. It’s not clean. It’s not the sort of thing a man admits if he wants to sound noble.

But I have never been noble.

I look over the church as the priest clears his throat and tries to remember how to speak. The old families stare back at me from behind overturned flowers and half-lowered weapons. Women clutch pearls at their throats. Men who have whispered my name in private now sit frozen in their pews, watching me take Sergei Antonov’s niece and Dmitri Sokolov’s bride in front of every witness who matters.

This is better than killing Dmitri.

Killing him would have been quick, but this humiliation will live for years.

His wedding. His church. His alliance. His bride. And now she stands at my side, my mark on her neck, and my hand wrapped around hers while the priest prepares to give her my name.

Dmitri howls somewhere to my right, clutching his leg while two of his men try and fail to drag him back without angering mine.

“Get up,” one of them mutters. “Dmitri, for Christ’s sake⁠—”

“Don’t touch me,” Dmitri snarls, though the words break into a groan when he shifts his weight.

I don’t look at him. That is the worst insult I can offer.

The priest swallows. “We are gathered here today⁠—”