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"Ready, Batya," Natalia chimes, and I hike the front of the dress up and stomp toward the door.

I haven't spoken to my father in days. I've been too upset that he's actually pushing this to this point. He is the one who saw Ivan attacking me and killed him. The sense of betrayal I'm experiencing has left me utterly speechless. This might bring the peace he wants to the streets, but his home will turn into a warzone if Dimitri and I can't stop this.

"Go take your seats and Natalia and I will be there soon," he says to my mother, not directing a shred of attention at me. He's treating me like a spoiled child who isn't getting her way instead of an assault victim whose father is betraying her. It hurts more than I can express, but there's nothing I can do about it.

Leaving my mother several strides behind, I stalk toward the sanctuary, passing a cluster of Sokolov men on my way. A few low catcalls reach my ears, but I ignore them in spite of how it makes my skin crawl. They should all know better, but apparently, they don't care.

When I sit in my assigned pew, I scan the crowd cautiously for Dimitri, but I don't see him yet. Whether he shows up or not, I'm doing this. Maybe my talk the other night got to him and he's too pissed at my rejecting him to show up and finish it, or maybe his family has him tied up somewhere. Either way, my mind is made up, but my hands are sweaty and curled together in my lap.

Mamochka sits next to me and fans herself with a wedding program. From the looks of it, they're trying to make this appear like a real wedding, though more Christmassy than normal. There are poinsettias everywhere, sprigs of holly and ivy, and above the altar is a clipping of mistletoe, complete with red ribbons and silver bells.

I'm sure Natalia would've much preferred a spring wedding with the flower suggestions she threw out, and I'm positive when she discussed it with our mother that every idea got shot down except the stupid material I'm suffering through.

The nerves are eating at me, though, turning my stomach so hard. I've had to suck on peppermints nonstop, so it's a good thing it's Christmastime and red peppermint candies are everywhere these days. I don't want to throw up right here in church in front of everyone.

When the music starts, I watch Alexei and Mikhail stalk in through the right side of the sanctuary via a small ornate door decorated in a red and gold Christmas wreath. Dimitri follows behind them at a respectable distance, and I watch him do the same thing I did. He looks for me and when he finds me, his eyes flash sadness, then turn away like he's afraid to be caught looking at me. What does it matter at this point? In a few minutes, everyone will know we've been conspiring, anyway.

But I turn my attention to the back of the room like everyone else and rise when Natalia appears in the doorway. She makes a beautiful bride. The billowing white gown dwarfs her slight frame, but the poinsettias she carries really pop. If ever there were a gorgeous bride, it's her. I'm just sad it's not going to happen, and I'm sad for her that her whole day will be an embarrassment.

I know deep down, even as she walks past me with a smile plastered on her face, that this isn't what she wants. In her heart—and she's told me this since we were kids—I know she wants a man who will sweep her off her feet and treat her like a princess. Alexei Sokolov isn't that man. He's not even close.

We sit, and the priest starts his benediction. When he gets to the vows, they're standard—sickness and health, richer or poorer, better or worse. That alone should've told this whole room Natalia is doing this out of obligation, not free will. She would never use such basic vows. She would write them herself. But then, they don't know her like I do.

The priest offers a prayer over their lives, then asks them to turn to face us. As they do, Natalia looks down at me. For a moment, it's like time stops. I see the apprehension in her eyes, fear dancing behind a plastic smile she wears. Her hand is clasped in Alexei's, but it's not a warm gesture, no fingers interlocked. His eyes are stone-cold and fixed. There's no mirth in his expression anywhere. He looks like a robot programmed to do a job, and I fear for my sister that it's how her entire future will go.

I remember Ivan's grubby paws clawing at me and tearing my clothing. I remember that same cold expression in his eyes, and my heart flips as I fear for my sister. She has to go home with that monster, sleep in his bed, bear his children. What's to say he won't force her the way Ivan forced me?

The priest's voice rises above the rustle of fabric and the murmur of people celebrating what this marriage symbolizes—the ending of a war. And when he says, "If anyone has any reason these two should not be gathered in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Bile rises in my throat, and for three long seconds I fight with my body to move. It likes to fawn. It wants to sit there and say nothing and avoid the attention and the shame, but I have to force myself to move.

First my hand rises, then my body. I stand on shaking, wobbling legs, and clear my throat.

"My name is Alana Volskaya," I mutter, feeling like I’m going to piss myself. My mother grabs my dress and yanks it, almost pulling it down too far in front, but I ignore her and swat at her hand. She's hissing at me, demanding I sit down as I say, "I protest this wedding on moral grounds."

My father turns around, red-faced and furious with eyes shooting daggers at me, and heat rushes up my neck into my cheeks, burning my skin, but I continue, even when Mikhail turns over his shoulder to glare at me in a warning.

"Ivan Sokolov raped me five years ago on this very day at our Christmas gala, and his father and mine covered it up. The council was never informed, and I have proof." Gasps rise around me, murmurs of dissent and anger, and I think I might pass out. I feel dizzy, and I lean on the pew in front of me, praying to God Dimitri rises like he's supposed to.

Eyes wash over me—of guests, the council leaders, my family—and I suck in a breath and hold it.

Stand up, Dimitri. My God, I'm going to pass out.

21

DIMITRI

Alana's words send a ripple of protests and hostile whispers through the church. My father's shoulders square and Alexei's dark eyes bore into me as I turn over my shoulder to look at her. I was waiting for this moment, sitting on pins and needles wondering if she would pull her weight. When she didn't speak for three full seconds, I almost stood to do it myself, but she kept her word.

I don’t know if I should be proud of her, scared for her, or upset over how she rejected me. But when I look at her and see how faint she looks—pale skin, trembling jaw, narrowed eyes—it makes me want to rush over there and pull her into my arms. That's just not part of this plan.

What is part of the plan is for me to do my part and rise with her, but before I get to it, her father rises and hisses, "Alana, sit down right this instant. You're making a fool of yourself."

A few council members turn with sour expressions to look at her as she refuses.

"No. I won’t sit. I have pictures I took of my medical files to prove a rape kit was done on Christmas Eve five years ago, and a subsequent DNA test was done following that to prove the blood on my body that did not match my own was that of Ivan Sokolov, and it matched his." She gets choked up, lip trembling like she's about to cry and can't go on.

My heart twists uncomfortably and I find myself rising. I won't let this den of wolves turn on her and make her the scapegoat again. She has suffered enough, and even if she doesn't want to be with me, she deserves the right to have her day in court. Since we don't use the average Russian courtroom to handle our differences, this is the next-best thing.