Page 37 of Marrying the Savage

“Back inside.”

I almost trip over my own dress. “Back inside? Into the church? The church with guns?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but you have terrible survival instincts.”

His hand tightens around my wrist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me that if he wants me moving, I am moving. “I have excellent survival instincts.”

“Then why are you going toward the shooting?”

“Because I’m not finished.”

“That is not reassuring.”

He glances back at me once, and the look is so calm, so cold, so completely untouched by the madness around us that my stomach drops for reasons I refuse to name.

“Stop fighting me,” he says.

“I’m not fighting you.”

“You tried to elbow me in the ribs.”

“You were dragging me.”

“You were running.”

“Yes, that’s what sane people do when men start firing weapons in a church.”

For one second, something that is almost amusement moves over his face.

Then it’s gone.

He pulls me through the side corridor and back toward the nave before I can come up with another argument, and the noise gets louder with every step. Shouting. Crying. Orders barked in Russian. The sharp crack of another gunshot somewhere near the rear entrance, followed by a woman’s scream that makes my blood go cold.

When we step back into the church, I stop breathing.

The ceremony is finished. The perfect white flowers are crushed across the stone floor. Several pews have been shoved out of place, and one of the tall candle stands has toppled near the aisle, wax spilling like pale blood. Women crouch behind benches, shielding children with their bodies. Men who arrived in polished suits and expensive watches are now on their knees or pressed against the walls, guns pointed at them by Damir’s men.

There is blood too. Not everywhere, not a massacre. But enough.

One man clutches his shoulder while another presses a cloth against his thigh. A Sokolov guard leans against a pillar, breathing through his teeth while blood runs down his sleeve. Near the back, one of Damir’s men is sitting upright with his jaw clenched, another Volodin soldier wrapping something tight around his upper arm.

No one seems dead. Thank God.

Or whatever version of God is still willing to stay in this room.

The church sounds like the end of the world. Gunshots have slowed, but shouting fills the nave. Men bark orders in Russian. I step back into the main church beside Damir, and every head turns.

For one horrible moment, it feels like the entire room sees me at once. My crooked veil. My ruined hair. My swollen mouth. My throat.

The mark is there. I know it before I touch it. A hot, sensitive bloom on my neck where Damir’s mouth had been. His bite aches beneath my fingertips, not exactly painful, not exactly anything I have a decent word for, and my uncle’s face turns from fury into something far colder.

Dmitri sees it. His eyes go black. “You filthy⁠—”

Damir moves before the word can finish. He steps slightly in front of me, his body blocking the direct line between me and half the men in the church. One arm comes back across my ribs, not tight enough to hold me hostage, but firm enough that if anyone raises a gun, he is between me and the barrel.

His hand lands dangerously high, just beneath my breast.