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I make my way back to where his hulking figure sits. He’s large enough to take up at least two spaces. Between the two of us, no one will dare try to sit in our row, which is how I prefer it. No matter what the Bratva code says, these people are not my real family. Or, if they are, they’re the kind of family I only want to see on occasion and leave as early as possible.
I’m barely seated when I realize I have to piss. It would be extremely rude for me to get up during the wedding. An offense I would have to spend years making up for. I tell Antonov I’ll be right back but see that the line for the restrooms is already long. I decide to find another.
I walk deep into the old church, appreciating the architecture. They don’t build churches like this anymore, with their old stone and high ceilings. Weak light filters through the old windows, making the space look like a fairytale. What a perfect day for a wedding. The bride must be thrilled.
I find a bathroom deep in the center of the church. I hear laughter and shouting and realize I must be near the groom’s suite. I say a silent prayer that I don’t run into any of the groomsmen, who are no doubt already a few sheets to the wind. Another Russian tradition.
I use the bathroom quickly and wash my hands, anxious to get back to my seat before I’m seen. These young Russian American men are rowdier than I ever was. Every moment is an opportunity to get shitfaced, even a wedding where they’re meant to be straight-faced and focused. These young boys have no respect for tradition or duty. And these are who we’re leaving the organization to.
I shake my head in disgust when something catches my eye. To my left, a flash of white grows closer and closer until it passes by me completely and continues running down the hall. Was that? No, it couldn’t be. Dimitri Mikhailov’s daughter did not just run away from her own wedding.
From the brief flash I saw of her, she was much prettier than I’d imagined. Her body was petite, but even yards of fabric couldn’t hide the curves she carried so confidently down the hall. Voluptuious was more like it. She wasn’t the kind of woman I normally found attractive, but I could already feel my cock growing hard at the sight of her.Her hair was mostly hidden by a veil, but I saw streaks of pale red. Her eyes were puffy with unshed tears, but they were a stunning, light shade.
I fall back against the wall, as if pushed by the force of her. My glimpse of her lasted for maybe five seconds, but when I close my eyes, she’s all I see. Those supple peaks of her breasts spilling out over her dress. Hips that would drive me wild all night. How could I have thought I was walking into the wedding of some boring, spoiled child?
Katrina Mikhailov is the most stunning creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and I must know her. An inhuman urge rises up in me to rip off her wedding dress and uncover the secrets hidden beneath. I want to stare into her light eyes and drown in their depths as I plunge into her.
I shake my head hard, trying to release my mind from the assault of these thoughts, but it’s no good. In a matter of mere seconds, this girl, this woman has robbed me of rational thought. It’s her wedding day. I should go back to my seat and watch her say “I do” to the sniveling Zaitsev boy. I should forget that I’ve seen her.
My legs start to move, but not in the direction of the church. They aren’t obeying my rational mind. They do not care what is right or proper or expected. Every cell in my body is pulling me toward her because I must know her. I must have her. The boy getting drunk off his ass in the groom’s suite doesn’t deserve her, and she is much too good for him. She should be mine.
CHAPTERTWO
Kat
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror in the bridal suite, and a rush of waves fills my ears. My mother is going on and on about how beautiful I look, but I can’t hear her. All I see is a porcelain doll, a pawn in someone else’s game. This dress is not beautiful, it’s suffocating. When I walk down the aisle, I’m being led down it in chains.
And aren’t brides supposed to be thinner and whispier? I feel like a whale dressed up in a tulle net. Despite what Mama says, the only reason Niko would ever agree to marry me is because he was forced. I should feel lucky that I’m walking down the aisle at all, but I just feel trapped.
My chest heaves and my breathing increases. I can’t do this. I absolutely cannot do this. The collar of my dress feels like it’s choking me, though it’s far from my throat. The veil is wrapping around my head, squeezing my brain. I have no choice in this. From now on, I will belong to a man I do not love, and this stupid outfit will carry me to him.
It’s an expensive dress. The most expensive I’ve ever worn. Seamstresses spent days hand-sewing the beading around the bodice. The lace was imported from Europe. Papa has spent weeks bragging about how much of a small fortune this wedding has cost him, but the dress is my mother’s crowning glory. She designed it with the seamstress, with no input from me of course. I’ve often wondered if this wedding is meant to celebrate me or them.
The answer is obvious, of course. Today doesn’t feel like a celebration. It feels like a funeral. I’m mourning my future, my independence. I’ll be saddled with a boy I don’t love who will turn into a man who tries to control me and manipulate me for the rest of my life. It’s too much.
I turn on my heel, walking quickly out of the suite before anyone can stop me. I can hear my mother’s high-pitched voice over the waves in my ears, but it doesn’t stop me. It spurs me forward. I need to get the hell out of here.
My feet begin moving faster, and I kick off the high heels that are meant to slow me down. They were expensive, custom-designed like the dress. I hope they break. I hope they shatter into a million pieces. I hear them clatter somewhere behind me and keep going. They won’t stop me, now. Not my father, not my mother, and certainly not Nikolai Zaitsev.
I thought I had more time than this. When I’d begged my father to let me attend college, he’d told me he’d pay under one condition. I would have to marry my brother’s best friend Niko in exchange. At the time, I thought that would be fine. After all, Niko is handsome, and I’d had a huge crush on him as a girl.
But I’m not a girl anymore. I’m an educated woman, and I see now that Niko is just a pawn in a game, like I am. Plus, he doesn’t have a single original thought in his head. He’s absolutely willing to do whatever his father says, and will be handed over his family’s business one day without having to lift a finger. Niko has nothing to offer to the world and definitely nothing to offer me.
And I’ve seen the kind of men these boys become. They are entitled and cruel. If he’s anything like his father, he’ll treat me horribly and speak badly of me when I’m not around him. I’ll be expected to dote on him hand and foot, and in return, I’ll be treated like his maid. That isn’t who I want to be.
Beyond that, I was supposed to have more time than this. I was supposed to get to finish college. I’m only twenty, for Christ’s sake. No part of me wants to spend the rest of my life with Niko. I was supposed to have more time. Something inspired Papa to collect on my promise early. I resent it with my whole heart. I wish I knew why it was so important for me to marry Niko right now.
Whatever the reason, it’s choking me. I want to run from everything and take back my promise. There’s nowhere to go, though. The church is no doubt packed with friends of the family. I can’t just run out there and let them see me. Let Papa see me. I can already picture the vein in his head popping out. His face will be so red. Running away isn’t an option, I just need a minute to think. To breathe.
After all, I did agree to this. For better or for worse. I didn’t know what I was agreeing to at the time, but I can’t break my promise. Papa always says we are only as good as our word. If I can collect myself, I can plaster the mask back on and do what’s expected of me. I’ll walk down the aisle and marry Niko and live the rest of my life in misery.
The air in my lungs burns and I feel like I’m going to throw up. My bare feet slap against the stone floor, echoing with every step. I must look like a madwoman, but I don’t care. I need to find somewhere I can hide for a few minutes.
I turn down a corridor and see the open door of a small bathroom. It’s perfect. It’s away from the bridal suite, away from the crowd, and no one will bother me in here. This is a large church. They’ll be searching for a long time before they think to come back here. I slam the door shut and lock it before grabbing the sink and heaving into it.
The porcelain feels good against my hot hands. I turn on the sink, relaxing against the sound of the flowing water. If only I could hide behind the waterfall of the faucet. I grab a paper towel and soak it in the cold water, then press the damp towel against my chest. The skin there is hot, burning. My whole body is on fire.
I can’t cry. Mother will kill me if I mess up the makeup that’s taken hours. I look up at my reflection and see that my cheeks are flushed, as hot as my chest. The glamorous, expensive makeup job is still perfectly intact, though. Not even a single eyelash has come out of place. My hair is curled flawlessly with tendrils running down my face.
