Page 164

IN POSITION. STAY STRONG. -T

The car pulls away from the palace, rolling down the long driveway. Through the tinted windows, I watch Victor’s stronghold recede into the distance, gleaming like a mirage against the late morning sky. The chapel appears on the horizon, its golden domes catching the sunlight like beacons.

The car rolls to a stop before the chapel steps, its golden domes even more imposing up close. The chauffeur opens my door, and I steel myself for whatever awaits. Instead of Victor's guards, I'm greeted by a sight that makes my heart stutter. Oscar and Zaire stand side by side on the marble steps, both resplendent in tailored tuxedos.

Z’s attention settles on me through the veil, his face composed, though the tension simmering beneath is impossible to miss.

Oscar steps forward and offers his hand to help me out of the car. He moves closer, adjusting my veil with unexpected tenderness.

“Like a fucking cupcake. The most beautiful, savage cupcake I’ve ever seen.”

I grip Oscar's arm tighter than necessary as I find my balance on the steps. “What are you doing here?”

“Uncle's orders,” Z replies, his lips barely moving as he takes my other arm. “We're to walk you down the aisle and give you away.”

Oscar's fingers press against mine in silent reassurance. “His way of reminding us that you belong to Dmitri now.”

“Poetic.”

Z and Oz lead me up the steps to the closed door of the chapel. The massive wooden doors loom before us, carved with religious scenes that seem to mock the unholy union about to take place within.

“Ready?”

I nod, unable to form words as my heart thunders against the restrictive bodice. The doors swing open, revealing the interior bathed in golden light from stained glass windows. Rows of wooden pews line either side of a center aisle. At the far end stands the altar, where Dmitri waits in black, his father at his side.

But it's not them who capture my attention.

Three rows back on the left, I see him. Luca. My brother. He sits stiffly, his expression carefully composed. But when our eyes meet, the fierce love shining there nearly undoes me.

Seeing him this close after all these years is killing me. Every instinct screams to run to him, to throw my arms around himand never let go. But I can’t. Not yet. I have to stay the course. I have to see this through.

Beside him is Alex, tall and solemn, tension radiating from every line of his body.

And behind them, my breath stutters. Sits Mikhail. My grandfather’s thin frame curls into the pew like a spider in its web, his pale stare locked on me. He nods once, barely more than a twitch, his lips curved in something that could almost be a smile.

Music swells from hidden speakers, a traditional wedding march that sounds more like a funeral dirge. Z’s fingers tighten around my arm as we begin to walk. My dress trails behind me like chains, each step deliberate, forced.

Eyes follow us. Victor’s men, the carefully selected guests permitted to witness this farce, and my grandfather’s spies, scattered like shadows among the crowd.

Dmitri stands at the altar, unmoving. His expression is blank, revealing nothing of the rage I saw yesterday. The bruises on my wrist pulse in sync with my racing heartbeat beneath Oscar’s steady grip. My future husband watches our approach with that same sharp, ravenous focus—the kind that doesn’t just see everything…it consumes it.

Victor looms beside him, positioned strategically above the proceedings on the raised platform. From his elevated perch, he commands a view of every corner of the chapel, every face, every potential threat. The military medals on his chest catch the light, creating the illusion of blood spatters across his immaculate jacket.

When we reach the steps leading to the altar, my feet falter. Z's hand tightens around my arm, steadying me as I struggle for breath against the vise of my bodice. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, a silent promise, a reminder that I'm not alone.

The priest steps forward. His Russian accent cuts through the chapel.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” the priest intones, his face impassive as he delivers the ancient question.

Z's fingers dig into my arm for a heartbeat before he forces himself to loosen his grip. I feel his reluctance like a physical thing, his body rigid with tension beside me.

“We do,” Oscar says, his voice even, but there’s a barely contained tension beneath the calm—tight, volatile, ready to snap.

The twins share a glance—quick, charged, full of meaning they don’t speak aloud—before each of them reaches for me. Z’s thumb brushes lightly over my wrist, a fleeting touch. Oscar gives my fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze.

Then, together, they place my hands into Dmitri’s waiting grasp.

The moment Dmitri's skin touches mine, I fight the urge to recoil. His fingers close around mine with possessive strength, the pressure just shy of painful.