Page 72 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

VESPER

Sleep refuses to come, chased away by the phantom ache of Dmitri’s fingers bruising my wrist, the memory of his calculated stillness as he stood between my forcibly spread legs.

Every time I blink, his face flashes behind my lids.

The gun tucked beneath my pillow offers hollow comfort against the ghosts that linger in the shadows.

By the time pale gray light filters through the curtains, I’ve memorized every crack in the ceiling, every swirl in the molding. The bruises on my wrist have deepened to an ugly purple—a bracelet of possession I can’t remove.

A sharp knock at the door makes me flinch.

"Enter," I call, my voice steadier than I feel as I slide the gun under my pillow.

The door swings open, revealing a procession of servants carrying silver trays laden with breakfast, garment bags, and an array of beauty products. They flood into my room, transforming the space into a bridal preparation chamber without a single word exchanged.

I'm whisked away from my bed, stripped of my nightgown, and subjected to their ministrations without so much as a “good morning.” Three women work on my hair simultaneously, tugging and pinning while another scrubs my face with cleansers.

“Too pale,” one mutters in Russian, slapping rouge onto my cheeks with enough force to sting.

“Hold still,” another commands as she lines my eyes with kohl, her breath hot against my face.

I remain silent, a living doll. My compliance is calculated—each moment bringing me closer to the endgame, to freedom. To my family.

When they finally unveil the dress, my breath catches. It's a monstrosity of satin and lace, dripping with crystals and pearls that must weigh ten pounds alone. The bodice is structured with visible boning, the neckline cut so low it borders on obscene.

“Arms up,” the head stylist orders, and I comply as they lower the massive creation over my head.

The adornments of crystals and pearls press against me, but the real torture begins as they lace the back. Each pull of the ribbons forces the air from my lungs, squeezing my ribs until breathing becomes a conscious effort.

“Tighter,” someone instructs, and I grip the bedpost as they cinch me further. “Mr. Petrov specified the waist measurement,” explains the head stylist, yanking the laces with brutal efficiency. “He wants perfection.”

Of course he does. I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting blood as they secure the final knot.

“The veil,” announces a severe-looking woman, approaching with what appears to be a cloud of tulle and crystal. It descends over my elaborately styled hair, cascades down my back.

Through the shimmering veil, the world takes on a dreamlike quality, appropriate for this nightmare masquerading as a wedding day. They position me before a full-length mirror, stepping back to admire their handiwork.

The woman staring back at me is a stranger.

“Beautiful,” sighs one of the stylists. “Like a true Petrov bride.”

I want to tell her there's no such thing. Every Petrov bride is either a prisoner or a corpse. Sometimes both.

“The necklace,” the head stylist declares, approaching with a velvet box. “Mr. Petrov was most insistent.”

Inside rests a diamond collar even more elaborate than the one from yesterday. Three rows of flawless gems, culminating in a ruby pendant the size of a robin's egg. The symbolism isn't lost on me. Yesterday's necklace was a taste. This is the full leash.

“It's heavy,” I remark as they fasten it around my throat.

“Tradition,” one of them responds dismissively. “Every Petrov bride wears this on her wedding day.”

I wonder how many of those brides survived to see their first anniversary.

They start fussing again, but I excuse myself to the bathroom, dragging the monstrosity of a dress with me. Once inside, I pull the gun given to me by Mikhail’s doctor and secure it into bands of my garter before returning to the women ready to fuss even more.

A sharp knock at the door silences the room. The stylists freeze, exchanging glances of barely concealed panic before the eldest moves to answer it.

Victor Petrov stands in the doorway, resplendent in a black tuxedo adorned with military-style medals across his chest. His silver hair is slicked back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. For a man his age, he exudes power and virility that's both impressive and terrifying.

“Leave us,” he commands, and the stylists scatter without a backward glance.

Victor steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over me. “Turn around,” he instructs, making a small circular motion with his finger.

I comply, pivoting slowly, the weight of the dress making every movement feel heavy, intentional. The veil swishes softly against the marble floor as I complete the turn and face him again.

“Acceptable.” His attention lingers on the necklace, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “The diamonds were my grandmother’s. She wore them when she married into the Petrov name, as did my wife. As will you.”

“How many brides have worn this necklace to their execution?”

Victor's lips curve into something approximating a smile.

“Only the ones who deserved it.” He approaches with measured steps, reaching out to adjust the veil where it frames my face.

His fingers brush against my cheek. “I trust there will be no...complications today,” Victor continues, straightening one of the diamond pins in my hair.

“You've proven yourself remarkably adaptable thus far. It would be a shame to see that resourcefulness go to waste.”

His fingers pause at the back of my neck, just above the diamond collar. “You witnessed Bianca's fate yesterday." The pressure of his touch increases slightly. “Remember what happens to those who are no longer useful to me.”

I swallow hard, the diamond collar suddenly feeling tighter around my throat.

“The Petrov family has no room for ornaments, only assets,” he continues, his voice almost gentle. “Assets that appreciate in value, like you and the children you'll bear. The others...well, you can guess the rest.”

I meet his stare through the veil, refusing to flinch despite the warning in his touch. “I understand, Victor.”

“Father,” he corrects, his fingers tightening slightly against my neck.

“Father,” I repeat, the word tasting like poison on my tongue.

Seemingly satisfied, he releases me and steps back, checking his watch. “It's time.”

Victor calls out to the guards stationed outside of her room. "Take her to the car."

The door swings open immediately, revealing two men in suits who enter with military precision. They flank me, not touching but close enough that escape would be impossible.

“I'll see you at the chapel,” Victor says, straightening his cuffs with meticulous attention. “Try not to disappoint me.”

He leaves without a backward glance, his footsteps fading down the marble corridor. The guards move closer, one extending his arm in a mockery of a gentlemanly escort.

"This way, Miss Rossi.”

I take his arm with as much dignity as I can muster, the constricting bodice making each breath shallow and deliberate. The second guard follows close behind as we move through Victor's palace.

Servants pause in their duties as we pass. They look on in awe and happiness. Their expressions are a lie, a mask as false as my own. I wonder how many of them are my grandfather's spies, watching and waiting for the moment when this farce implodes.

Outside, a white Rolls Royce gleams in the morning sun, its polished surface reflecting the palace like a distorted mirror. The chauffeur holds the door open, his white-gloved hands steady as I'm helped into the plush interior.

“Your security detail will follow in a separate vehicle,” the guard informs me before closing the door with a soft thud.

I'm alone for the first time since the preparations began. My fingers immediately go to my thigh, confirming the gun is still secure in my garter. The cold metal against my skin is a stark reminder of what's at stake today.

My watch vibrates against my wrist. The only allowance given since it nearly covered the bruise from Dmitri. I glance down, angling it beneath the voluminous skirts to read the message scrolling across its face.

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?”