Page 34 of Marrying the Savage

He turns, face twisted with fury. “She is mine.”

That word makes the decision for me.

Mine.

I hit him with the flat, brutal satisfaction of my fist connecting with his mouth before he finishes drawing breath for the next stupid sentence. His head snaps to the side. Blood marks his teeth immediately. He staggers, catches himself against the wall, and reaches for the gun beneath his jacket.

I step in and hit him again, harder. This time he goes down.

I don’t wait to see whether he stays there.

The side passage is narrow, lined with old stone and small candles trembling in red glass holders. The noise of the church dulls behind me but doesn’t disappear. It follows through the corridor in flashes: gunfire, shouts, a woman sobbing, Mikhail barking orders above it all.

Ahead, a white veil disappears around the corner.

I move faster.

She runs well for a woman in a wedding dress, I will give her that. She has gathered the front of the skirt in both hands, veil half-loose, pearls flashing at her cuffs as she hurries toward a side exit. One shoe is already gone. The other clicks unevenly against the stone. Her hair is slipping from its careful pins, dark waves falling around her face.

She reaches the outer vestibule and shoves at the side door. It sticks.

She curses. Beautifully. Then she tries again, harder.

“Sofia.”

She goes still.

Only for a second.

Then she throws her shoulder against the door with the desperate determination of a woman who has decided being crushed by old architecture is preferable to being caught.

I cross the space before she can try a third time. My hand closes around her waist, and I pull her back. She gasps, twisting instantly, one elbow coming toward my ribs with enough force to prove she has either been taught badly or learned violence by paying attention.

I catch her wrist. She fights me anyway.

Good.

I drag her away from the door and turn her against the wall, not gently, but carefully enough that her head doesn’t strike stone. Her back meets the old plaster. Her breath hits my face. Her veil slips further, trapping one side of her face in white lace.

For the first time, we are close.

Too close.

Close enough for me to see the tiny pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. Close enough to smell roses in her hair and champagne beneath it. Close enough to feel the heat of her body through white silk and lace.

My hand is still at her waist. Her wrist is still caught in my other hand. Her chest rises against mine with each sharp breath.

Something dark and immediate moves through me.

Inappropriate. Unwelcome.

Undeniable.

My body hardens with a speed that would be irritating if it were not so absolute. Of all the places for desire to make itself known, the side corridor of a church currently filling with gunfire is not the one I would have chosen.

Sofia notices. Her eyes widen, then drop for the briefest second before snapping back to my face. A flush climbs her throat. Not fear. Not entirely.

“Where,” I ask quietly, “do you think you’re going?”