Page 19 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Valentin shouts, “You fucking Zakharovs!”

A gun clicks—and others follow. In the millisecond that passes, I turn to find several guns aimed at me.

By the next second, there’s an eruption of high-pitched giggles beside me. Bemusement floods me as I stare at Darya, almost distracted by the ring-embellished hand she raises to her mouth. Her eyes dance like waves of a sunlit ocean. Fuck, she’s magnificent. She’s also, by the looks of it, genuinely fucking amused by the dark turn things have swiftly taken.

Of course she is.

Wholly unfazed, she drawls, “I can shoot him myself if I want to, thank you.” With that same ring-clad hand, she waves at her brothers to stow their guns. Her sister, too, is aiming one—but she doesn’t seem to care either way, because I see her shrug, pretending to shoot Viktor in the crotch, before she chortles and tucks it out of sight.

Great. Insanity probably runs in their family.

Trifon’s gun remains aimed at my skull. As does Anastasia’s at his.

“How long has this been going on?” he demands.

“I asked Darya for her hand last week,” I share, pitching my voice and letting it echo throughout the church. The acoustics become another reason to have chosen the setting. “As I did, I laid out the reasons to her—it’s to strengthen the alliance, which is being questioned and threatened by external factors. I asked her because she will be an incredible partner.”

“And also,” Darya adds, “maybe because none of you are gay?”

“I mean, Leo’s a little gay!” Miron Yuri perks up, then grunts, after likely getting elbowed in the side.

Viktor roars with laughter in the background.

“Darya. Not funny.” Trifon glares.

“Factual,” she counters coolly. “But I’d also do anything for the Yuri legacy, regardless of whether you boys are capable of letting Nadya and me do anything. And political marriages happen all the time. After all, not all of us can kidnap our spouses.”

I choke on air and have to fight to hold my breath and steady my nerves. That, I didn’t expect her to say. I know she fights dirty firsthand, but I’d never expect her to land a blow against her brothers. Her words are a jab at just about everyone in the room. She sounds cheerful when delivering it.

There’s no tamping down the heavy sense of foreboding when Darya waves her newly bejeweled hand in the air and preens, “This wedding will be one to beat. Especially with the Zakharovs bankrolling it. Obviously, the company line will be that he’s swept me off my feet, and the event will demonstrate precisely how.” Her gaze cuts to me, malice glittering in those bewitching blue eyes. “Isn’t that right, Anton? Like we discussed?”

It takes effort to refrain from laughing. God only knows how much hysteria would color it. How quickly and effortlessly she steals my control. This wicked, vicious woman—who has me in a fucking chokehold, like I’m not the one who spun this web to begin with.

Another talent to add to that list.

Now, I suspect, is where I should steal back that upper hand. I should be daunted, at least.

Yet all I feel, mortifyingly, is a disturbing flutter in my belly.

Chapter 7 - Darya

When I had first witnessed the afternoon sun blazing in through the stained-glass windows of this church, I’d been overcome. For just a moment, after entering the church last and shutting the heavy doors behind him, Anton had looked at me and let me look back at him. I still remembered how I’d thought of how he exuded the same energy as those windows—sad and sainted.

The way he had looked back at me, severe but vulnerable, had made my breath hitch.

Then, the moment ended. As all moments must. And it had occurred to me that he could’ve gathered us all in the church to force me down the aisle. There could have been a dastardly scheme at play.

My guard jerked back into place. His eyes had hardened with scorn.

It’s dizzying to think that had been over a month ago.

Today, the church is bedecked in glamorous accouterments. I walk past the crimson runner stretching from beyond the doors to the chancel, now dressed up as an altar. But I understand that it’s still as much a battlefield as it had been that day.

Predators and scavenger beasts are prone to revisiting carcasses to strip the meat over several nights, continuing to feast until the bones are dry. I can’t help but think of that as I make my way out of the bridal suite set up in the back of this same church.

I’d chosen it for the day myself.

Personally, I believe my choice of venue indicates a fabulous sense of humor about life. Specifically, my life, which has been informed by many experiences, none of which I suspected would bring me here—to this day, binding me to this person.