Page 48 of Marrying the Savage

The church disappears. She stares up at me as I drag my thumb slowly along the corner of her mouth, leaving a red mark against the softness there. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to frighten.

Enough to claim. Enough to ruin the perfect bridal image they made for another man. A smear of blood where innocence was supposed to be.

Her eyes widen, but not with fear. With shock. With something darker beneath it.

I lower my mouth close to her ear. “Hello, wife,” I whisper.

She inhales sharply. “Not yet,” she says, but the words barely make sound.

My mouth curves. “Soon enough.”

Then I kiss her.

Not like I kissed her in the corridor. This is not hidden. Not rushed. Not stolen against a wall while bullets tear apart the ceremony behind us.

This kiss is in front of everyone.

Sergei. Sokolov. The old families.

The women with pearls and the men with guns.

Every witness who came to watch Dmitri Sokolov take a bride now watches that bride open beneath my mouth.

At first she goes still, shocked by the blood, by the church, by my hand at her jaw. Then her fingers lift and catch my sleeve, not pushing, not pulling, simply holding on as if her body has not yet decided what survival requires.

I decide for both of us.

I deepen the kiss. Her lips part. The sound she makes is so small no one else could hear it, but I do. It burns straight through me.

When I lift my head, her eyes are wide and dazed, her lips marked red from my blood and swollen from my mouth. For the first time since I entered the church, she looks truly shocked.

Good. I prefer honesty on her face.

The priest makes a strangled noise behind us.

I turn toward him without letting go of Sofia. “Continue.”

He looks at my bloody hand, then at Sofia’s mouth, then at the ruined aisle. “I-I need⁠—”

“You need to ask the question.”

His voice cracks. “Which question?”

I stare at him.

He remembers quickly. “Do you, Damir Volodin, take Sofia Antonova to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“Yes.” The answer leaves me before he finishes the sentence.

Savage satisfaction moves through me again, hotter this time. There are old victories men celebrate with champagne. There are others that settle in the blood. This one settles in mine.

The priest turns to Sofia.

She’s still looking at me.

“Sofia Antonova,” he says, voice trembling, “do you take Damir Volodin to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

The entire church waits. Sergei’s silence presses against my back like a blade. Mikhail stands ready near the aisle. My blood cools on Sofia’s mouth. For one second, she looks toward the pews. Toward her friend. Toward the injured men. Toward the children still huddled against their mothers.