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Lyonya Antonov stood in front of the altar to the right, Alek Evanoff at his side. She couldn’t make out Lyonya’s features from the end of the aisle, but then her father began moving, pulling her along like a tugboat, and her heart beat faster as the distance narrowed between them.
She remembered Lyonya as a boy. A little brute who was quick to anger and even quicker to put his anger on display, who acted like the rules didn’t apply to him while Kira followed every rule, all too aware that her power lay in pleasing her father.
In pleasing everyone.
But the man standing at the altar — the man who would soon be her husband — bore little resemblance to the boy who’d played on the lawn of the Baranov estate when they’d both been children, their fathers locked in conversation.
This man was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders that strained at the fabric of his tailored suit and muscled thighs barely contained by his tailored trousers. His hair was thick and dark, begging for her fingers, though she crushed that thought as quickly as it arose in her mind.
His nose was thin but prominent, almost regal over lips that were too full, too inviting, for such a hard man.
But it was his eyes, the one thing that hadn’t changed, that held her attention. She remembered them, the way he would stand on the sidelines and watch while the other children played, oblivious to the serious nature of the business that went on around them.
He wasn’t so different from her in that way. It was why she’d agreed to the marriage. She despised Lyonya Antonov, despised him for what he’d been as a boy and for what he still was, but she thought she might understand him.
His birthright had been stolen from him by his father’s imprisonment.
Kira’s had been stolen by virtue of her gender.
They were, at least, aligned in their goals of reclaiming what was theirs.
Her father slowed his steps as they reached the altar, and Kira’s mouth went dry. Since they’d grown up, she’d done little more than pass Lyonya at a distance. She hadn’t even seen him in person after she’d agreed to the marriage. What would have been the point? She’d made the decision based on logic. Seeing him wouldn’t change the facts of the situation.
Now she saw that it had been a mistake not to face him. Standing only feet away, she had the sudden realization that this was a man she wouldn’t be able to ignore. His posture was relaxed, but he was an apex predator, one who had the capacity to be still while he watched and waited for his prey to make a mistake.
Did that make her the prey?
She forced herself to breathe. No. She would not be prey to a man like Lyonya Antonov.
To any man.
She was here of her own volition, playing her own game on a board only she could see.
Lyonya thought he had power? Perhaps.
But so did she. It was a subtle power by necessity, but that made it no less significant. Lyonya would eventually find that he was simply a piece in her game, one she would use to her advantage when the opportunity arose.
“Who gives this woman?” the priest asked.
“I do,” Kira said, before her father could speak. “I give myself, because no man,” she said, looking up at her father with love, “not even my dearest father, has the authority to do so.”
Her father’s nod was small, but she knew he understood, knew he didn’t begrudge her this small revolt.
The priest’s face creased with concern as he nodded.
Kira stood on tiptoe to kiss her father’s cheek. “I love you,Pápochka. Don’t worry about me.”
She removed her hand from his arm and stepped away, feeling acutely the distance between them.
Squaring her shoulders, she stood in front of Lyonya and met his gaze. His expression was unreadable as the priest instructed him to repeat the vows.
I take you, Kira Viktorovna Baranov, to be my wife
to be with you always
in wealth and in poverty…
She watched Lyonya as he repeated the vows,all the while repeating her own words in her mind.
You think you are using me, but I’m going to use you too.
And you won’t even see me coming.
