Page 46 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

He's quiet for a long moment, emotions flickering across his face that range from pain to resignation.

"I want you to be happy," he finally says. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

The words are simple, but the way he says them carries so much weight. I step forward and take his hand, squeezing gently.

"I know," I whisper. "And I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. You've been more than just a bodyguard, Benedikt. You've been my best friend.” I smile as tears once again threaten behind my eyelids. "You are the brother I never had, and you will always be family to me."

He nods once, his jaw tight. Then he releases my hand and steps back, his professional mask sliding into place.

"Your father is waiting downstairs," he says. "It's time."

He leaves before I can respond, and I'm left standing alone, his sadness lingering in the air like a ghost.

The ceremony is held in the main hall beneath the family icons that have watched over generations of guardians. It's small and intimate, perhaps fifty people present, all carefully selected. Bratva captains and their wives, members of the Aristocrat Wives' Circle, and a few trusted associates from both families.

My father waits for me at the entrance, looking distinguished in his formal suit. When he sees me, his expression softens and turns a bit nostalgic.

"You look just like your mother," he says quietly, offering his arm.

Damn it. Will I be able to make it through the ceremony without blubbering like a baby? There's nothing he could have said to have made me any happier than to compare me to my mother. I take his hand, and together we walk toward the front where Samuil stands waiting.

My breath lodges in my throat when I see him. He's dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie. But it's the ancient Galkin sword hanging at his side that steals my attention, the blade sheathed in an ornate scabbard bearing the family crest. I've heard about the famous sword, but I've never seen it, or even pictures of it. The Galkin family ring sits on his right hand, the same ring worn by every guardian who came before him.

He looks like exactly what he is, a warrior bound by duty and bloodline.

Our eyes meet across the distance, and I feel his gaze like a physical touch, starting at my head and moving slowly down my body, pausing a little longer on my breasts and hips.

The Orthodox priest stands before the icons, his robes elaborate and traditional. As my father and I approach, Samuil steps forward. My father formally places my hand into Samuil's.

"Take care of her," my father says quietly, his voice carrying a warning beneath the words.

"I will," Samuil responds, his grip on my hand firm and steady.

The priest's voice fills the hall as he leads us through the traditional service. Every word carries weight. Every gesture holds meaning. Samuil and I exchange rings, the gold bands simple but significant. When Samuil slides the ring onto my finger, his touch is gentle despite the calluses on his hands.

Then comes the crowning. Two ornate crowns are held above our heads by attendants as we stand before the icons. The crowns represent glory and honor, the priest explains, but also the martyrdom of marriage, the sacrifices required to build a life together.

I glance at Samuil and find him watching me. His expression is unreadable, but there's an intensity in his gaze that makes my pulse quicken. We share the marriage cup, both drinking from the same vessel. The wine is sweet and strong. We're bound now, sharing everything, our lives intertwined, the priest explains.

The ceremonial walk around the lectern follows, three times in a circle, representing the journey we'll take together. Samuil keeps his hand on mine the entire time, his presence solid and grounding. As we complete the final circle, I realize what this ceremony truly represents. It's not just about two people getting married. It's about the joining of two powerful families that have spent generations circling each other with suspicion and distrust. The Rostovas and the Galkins, finally united.

When the priest pronounces us husband and wife, Samuil turns to me. For a moment, we just look at each other. Then he leans down and kisses me, brief and chaste, appropriate for the audience watching. But I feel the restraint in that kiss and the tension coiled beneath his control.

The reception that follows is surprisingly intimate. We gather in the estate's formal dining room where tables have been arranged with elegant simplicity.

I'm hyperaware of being watched. The Aristocrat Wives' Circle sits together at one table, their expressions polite but evaluating. Every word I speak feels like a test.

Samuil remains at my side throughout, his presence both comforting and unnerving. He introduces me to people I haven't met, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The gesture is possessive but not aggressive, a subtle claim that doesn't go unnoticed.

Gregory approaches at one point, offering polite congratulations. "Welcome to the family, Princess Anastasia."

"Thank you, Gregory." I study his face, searching for genuine warmth, but his smile never quite reaches his eyes. He exchanges a look with Samuil that I can't quite interpret, then he excuses himself and disappears into the crowd.

Benedikt remains visible throughout the reception, positioned near the entrance where he can watch everything. He doesn't approach me again, but I feel his presence and it's both reassuring and concerning. I don't like that he looks so sad. Is he afraid that now that I'm a married woman, I won't have time for him? Didn't I just tell him that he's my best friend and will always be family to me?

The afternoon stretches into evening. Guests offer toasts and well-wishes. Food is served, wine flows freely, and conversations fill the room with a low hum of voices.

But beneath it all, I feel the scrutiny. The Bratva captains study Samuil and me with equal intensity, probably wondering how this union will shift the balance of power. The wives watch to see if I'll prove myself worthy of the heirloom I'm wearing.