Page 46 of Marrying the Savage

“We know why we’re here,” I say.

His mouth shuts.

Sofia glances at me from beneath the edge of her veil. There is irritation in her face despite everything, bright and furious enough to make something near amusement move through me.

“Let him speak,” she says under her breath.

I look down at her. “You are suddenly fond of ceremony?”

“No. I am fond of finishing things before more people bleed on the flowers.” Her voice is low enough that only I hear it, but there’s no tremble in it.

Good.

Very good.

The priest tries again, his eyes darting once toward Dmitri, once toward Sergei, and then very quickly away from both of them. “We are gathered here today, in the sight of God and these witnesses, to join…” He stops, his throat bobbing. “To join Sofia Antonova and—” He stops and clears his throat.

“Damir Volodin,” I say, not missing a beat.

He gulps. The priest knows me; people in my world rarely don’t.

“To join Sofia Antonova and Damir Volodin in holy matrimony.”

There’s a sound from the pews. Not a gasp. Not quite. A collective intake of breath, as if the whole room realizes at once that this is truly happening.

Sergei Antonov stands near the front pew, face carved from cold stone. His men have been pushed back, his control broken in front of everyone, but he is not a fool. He understands the arithmetic of the room. My men have the exits. His men are either disarmed, injured, or trapped beneath too many guns to move without dying. The Sokolovs are worse off. Without Dmitri standing properly, they don’t know whether to attack, bargain, or pretend this disaster can still become victory.

Sergei’s eyes meet mine. Hatred burns there. I give him nothing except the sight of my thumb moving slowly over his niece’s knuckles.

His jaw tightens.

Sofia’s hand twitches in mine, perhaps because she notices the small cruelty, perhaps because she hates being used even now.

Too bad. She invited me into this church. She should have known I would not enter quietly.

The priest’s voice wavers through the vows. “Marriage is a solemn covenant, entered into with reverence⁠—”

Dmitri laughs. It’s a ragged, ugly sound, wet with pain and humiliation. “Reverence?” he spits. “She was moaning against him in the hallway ten minutes ago.”

Sofia stiffens beside me.

The church goes still again.

I turn my head slowly. Dmitri is on one knee, blood spreading dark from his thigh, his face pale and shining with sweat. Pain has stripped the polish from him completely. Without it, he looks younger. Meaner. Smaller.

“You’re not marrying her,” he says, his voice breaking around the edges. “You’re taking my leftovers.”

I release Sofia’s hand. Her fingers catch the air for half a second, as if she didn’t expect the sudden absence.

Mikhail shifts near the aisle. “Damir.”

I ignore him.

Dmitri sees me move and reaches blindly toward one of his fallen men. I glimpse metal before the others do—a blade, not a gun. Small, sharp, desperate. He lunges badly because of his injured leg, but rage gives stupid men speed.

He comes for my side, and I catch his wrist in my bare hand. The knife bites across my palm. Sofia gasps. For a moment, Dmitri and I are close enough that I can smell the blood on his breath.

I look at the blade pressed into my hand. Then at him. “Still confusing noise with courage,” I say.