Page 39 of Marrying the Savage

“Move,” my uncle orders.

They don’t.

It’s such a small thing, but it tells me everything.

Damir’s men have control.

Not complete control, maybe. Not enough for everyone to relax. But enough. Sergei’s men are still armed in places, but most of them are pinned back, outmaneuvered, or staring down the barrels of Volodin guns. Dmitri’s men look furious and confused, which seems to be their natural state under pressure.

My uncle notices too. That only makes him angrier. “You bring men into my family’s church, you attack my guests, you put your hands on my niece, and now you stand there as though you have a right to breathe in this room?” His voice carries through the church with enough force to make the candles tremble.

Or maybe that’s just my imagination.

Maybe everything feels like it’s trembling because Damir Volodin is standing too close to me, one hand still at my side, his body angled in a way that makes it impossible for anyone to get a look at me without looking through him first.

He’s not holding me hostage. That’s the strange part.

A hostage would have a gun to her head or an arm locked around her throat. A hostage would be dragged in front of the room as a warning. A hostage would be used.

Damir does none of that.

My wedding has turned into an armed standoff, my fiancé is bleeding from the mouth, my uncle looks ready to murder everyone breathing, and I am standing here aware of Damir’s hand like some shamefully touch-starved idiot.

I hate this day.

Damir’s face remains calm. “You should be more concerned about why your men fired first.”

“My men?” my uncle roars. “You brought an army into my church.”

“I brought protection.”

“You brought war.”

“No,” Damir says. “You built one and dressed it in white flowers.”

The words land like a slap.

My uncle’s face darkens.

Damir’s men have control now. I see it before my uncle says anything. The Volodins are fewer, maybe, but they move like one body. Every man knows his position. Every gun is held steady. My uncle’s men are angry and humiliated, but they have been pushed back, divided, and disarmed in places. Dmitri’s men look as if they are waiting for someone else to tell them what courage costs.

Damir’s hand shifts slightly against my side. Not much, but enough to pull my attention back. Enough to remind me that I’m not free simply because Dmitri is no longer holding my hand.

Damir looks around the room, then speaks with such calm that it somehow sounds more dangerous than shouting. “This ends one way.”

My stomach tightens.

No.

I don’t like that sentence.

My uncle’s eyes narrow. “And what way is that?”

“The Antonov-Sokolov marriage can’t continue.”

Dmitri laughs, sharp and ugly. “You don’t decide that.”

Damir doesn’t even glance at him. That’s worse than if he had insulted him.