Page 15
My hands won’t stop trembling, no matter how many times I clench them into fists.
Today is my wedding day, though not by choice.
I stand in an ornate dressing room, facing a mirror that reflects a person I barely recognize.
A tailored gown flows around my ankles, chosen by the staff after I refused to pick one myself.
The style is traditional: lace along the sleeves, a fitted bodice, and too many tiny embellishments.
People kept knocking earlier, offering last-minute touches or final adjustments.
I waved them away and locked the door; I’m desperate for one moment of quiet.
I smooth my palms over the bodice, wishing everything didn’t feel so constricting.
The entire mansion has been transformed into a showplace for this ceremony.
There’s a grand hallway set up with rows of chairs, an aisle lined with some ridiculous floral arrangement, and an officiant waiting to pronounce me the bride of Dimitri Barkov.
I can’t quite wrap my mind around that title.
A Barkov. One of them. The thought boils my blood.
A timid knock interrupts my angry pacing. “Miss Thorne,” a soft-spoken woman calls from outside. “They’re ready for you.”
I swallow a lump in my throat and glance at the mirror again.
My hair is pinned in a style that reveals my face, so there’s no escaping the moment I walk out there.
Let them see the scowl. Let them know I’m doing this under protest. I step into the hall and see two suited guards who nod stiffly but say nothing.
They guide me toward a wide corridor that leads to the main foyer.
Around us, decorations cover every surface.
Gilded columns rise on either side, draped with elaborate swags of fabric that match the flowers in my useless bouquet.
Staff members send sympathetic or curious looks my way.
I’m sure they’re used to lavish events, but I doubt they’re used to a bride who looks like she might take off at any second.
At the entrance to what feels like a makeshift chapel, Maksim stands in place as if he’s waiting to confirm I haven’t run off. He’s wearing a sleek suit that highlights his broad frame. He gives me a short nod and says, “It’s time.”
I take a breath that does nothing to calm me. The corridor stretches before me, decorated to the hilt. An aisle runner is unrolled on the floor, lined with vases overflowing with flowers. The seats are filled with members of the Barkov Bratva and their associates.
I force my feet to move. Every step feels heavier than the last, and my pulse is thudding in my ears.
The hush in the space grows, though I detect whispers from a few onlookers.
They know what this is—an ironclad statement, a show of power.
Dimitri’s territory, Dimitri’s men, Dimitri’s bride.
I can’t even summon the energy to glare at them; I just focus on placing one foot in front of the other.
Then I see him up ahead. Dimitri stands at the end of the aisle, wearing a tailored black suit that fits like a second skin.
He’s got that same controlled demeanor I’ve grown used to.
I can’t figure out if he’s bored or concentrating.
Either way, there’s nothing soft in his gaze.
He’s not looking at me with affection. This is about strategy, and we both know it.
My dress swishes around my ankles as I reach him. A hush settles, and the officiant, a dignified-looking older man, opens a small book. I can’t make myself focus on the formal words that follow. The officiant drones on about unity, loyalty, and binding vows. I tune it out.
When the officiant instructs us to state our promises, Dimitri speaks first. “I, Dimitri Barkov, take you, Cecily Throne, to uphold our union, protect our interests, and stand together.” The words are carefully chosen to reflect the Bratva’s priorities.
There’s no mention of love, no flowery sentiment.
Just a vow of protection and allegiance.
Then it’s my turn. Every nerve in my body screams that I shouldn’t say a single thing.
But if I fail to speak, I’ll make a scene that might not end well for me.
I refuse to show more vulnerability in front of all these watchers.
I adopt the same mechanical tone. “I, Cecily Thorne, take you, Dimitri Barkov…” My voice hitches on that last name.
“…to honor this arrangement.” I stop there, ignoring the officiant’s attempt to prompt me for more words.
He moves along smoothly. When he asks for rings, Dimitri nods to Maksim, who steps forward and places two simple bands on a small cushion.
Dimitri slips one onto my finger. A flick of silver, and it’s over my knuckle, snug enough to feel like a shackle.
My skin crawls at the finality of it. I place the other ring on Dimitri’s hand, noticing how warm his skin is.
I want to fling the entire cushion across the room, but I force myself to complete the gesture.
The officiant declares us husband and wife, and it feels like the noose has tightened.
A ripple of subdued applause follows. Dimitri leans in and makes the barest contact with my cheek—a perfunctory peck that feels more like a reminder of who owns me now.
Every muscle in my body tenses, but I stay still, letting him make this public show.
My eyes flick to the side, trying to avoid his.
The ceremony concludes with an announcement that we’ll hold a brief reception in the main dining hall.
Dimitri offers me his arm. I stare at it for a second, then loop mine through.
We walk up the aisle, past the rows of onlookers.
I overhear hushed commentary: “Smart move,” “Good for the family,” “Thorne’s going to regret crossing them. ” All of it fuels my anger.
In the dining hall, a line of servers presents trays of drinks and small bites. A handful of men approach us to congratulate Dimitri on his “wise alliance.” No one looks at me unless it’s to cast a fleeting glance of pity or curiosity.
I manage to slip away from Dimitri’s side for a moment when a cluster of men claim his attention about Redwood Point. It isn’t long before Dimitri finds me. He pulls away from the men he was talking to and crosses the floor to me. The ring on my finger catches my eye again, mocking me.
“Are you going to speak with anyone?” he asks.
“I have nothing to say to them,” I reply. “Unless you’d like me to congratulate them on witnessing my captivity?”
“Lower your voice. We’re drawing enough attention as it is.”
“I really don’t care. You already forced me into a wedding. You think I’m worried about a few stares?”
He exhales then says, “I’ll make a few final rounds. Then we’ll leave.”
“Great,” I mutter. “I can’t wait to see what you have planned for the rest of the night.”
His grey eyes move over my face, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he gestures for me to follow him to a smaller gathering near the far corner, where Aleksei stands with a few high- ranking men. They nod politely, but I offer only a perfunctory greeting.
Aleksei quickly addresses me. “Congratulations,” he says, though there’s nothing celebratory in his tone. “You’ve strengthened our family, Cecily.”
I grit my teeth. “Lucky me.”
One of the men, presumably an ally from another Bratva cell, steps forward. “This was a bold move,” he says to Dimitri, ignoring me. “Thorne must be beside himself.”
“He’ll learn,” Dimitri replies, eyes locked on the man. “We protect our own.”
I glance away, stifling the urge to roll my eyes.
After a few more minutes of obligatory conversation, Dimitri clears his throat and steers me toward the exit.
We step outside the dining hall, and he guides me through a side corridor, presumably to avoid the main crowd.
I don’t object. My skin feels too hot, and I’m suffocating under the weight of all those stares and this stupid dress.
Once we’re in a quieter section, I pull my arm free from his hold.
“Don’t touch me,” I insist.
“We’ll retire upstairs for the night. Tomorrow, you can see Seraphina.”
The mention of my sister hits a raw nerve.
I’ve been desperate to see her, to confirm she’s truly safe.
Part of the reason I tolerated this entire fiasco was the promise that I could be with her after the ceremony.
“When?” I demand. “Tomorrow morning? Afternoon? Or will you push it back indefinitely?”
“Afternoon,” he answers. “We’ll arrange proper security.”
“Fine. But don’t think that makes this marriage any less of a prison.”
He inclines his head. “Understood.”
I follow him through winding corridors, all of them guarded.
We reach a staircase that leads to a more private wing.
My pulse picks up, anticipating whatever confrontation might happen next.
For all I know, he’ll insist on sharing a room from now on, which sounds like something between heaven and hell all at once.
He opens a door—his door, it seems—and gestures for me to enter.
I linger in the hallway for a moment, considering whether I can refuse.
Then I roll my shoulders back and march inside.
The space is large, dominated by a heavy wooden bed with carved posts.
There’s a wardrobe, an armchair, and a desk piled with folders I assume contain Bratva business.
A pair of tall windows are covered with thick drapes.
The only personal touch is a small framed photo of Dimitri with his brothers, presumably taken a few years ago.
He closes the door behind us. I tense, ready for a verbal spar or something worse.
He moves to the wardrobe and shrugs off his jacket before draping it on a wooden hanger. He says nothing, as if he wants me to speak first. I stand my ground by the door, refusing to show any hint of nervousness. This man has my head in chaos, and I hate it.
He turns around and locks eyes with me. “You can stay here tonight,” he begins, “or I can have a separate room prepared nearby. I’m aware this situation is forced on you, but nothing else will be.”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Didn’t expect you to offer me an out. Are you going soft?”
“It’s not an out. I’m still your husband, and you’re still my wife. I’m simply acknowledging that you’re angry.”
“Angry doesn’t even cover it.”
His gaze slides over my wedding dress, and I see a hint of something there.
Desire, or maybe a sense of possession. It twists inside me, drawing out my own unwanted reaction to his presence.
He’s gorgeous, there’s no denying that. Ruthless in ways that make my heart pound, but undeniably captivating.
I’m furious that my body reacts to him. I want to blame the stress, the high emotions of the day, anything but the truth: I’m drawn to him.
He breaks the silence. “I’ll call a staff member. She can help you change, or show you to a different suite that is close enough to avoid drawing suspicion.”
“Stop,” I blurt. “You just made me your wife. You can’t pretend this doesn’t matter. You can’t push me off to another room like an afterthought.” I barely recognize the venom in my tone.
“I’m trying to be considerate.”
“You dragged me in front of your entire clan and forced me to take a vow. Now you’re acting like a gentleman?” I step within a few feet of him. “Which one is the real Dimitri? The man who kills to protect me or the man who locked me in a cage to begin with?”
“They’re the same. I do what’s necessary.”
That answer enrages me more than anything else. A part of me wants to scratch him, to pound my fists against that stoic chest until he shows some real emotion.
He strides around the bed, closing the distance in a heartbeat. My pulse skyrockets. Part of me wants him to see how furious I am. Another part, twisted and treacherous, wants to see if he’ll take me in his arms. It’s insane. I hate him. I want him. The push and pull tears me up inside.
He stops close enough that I could reach out and push him away.
But something about his presence keeps me rooted in place.
We lock eyes, and my breathing quickens.
For a moment, I think he’s going to crush his mouth to mine, proving that he owns me now.
Instead, he steps back, controlling whatever impulse just flickered in his eyes.
Silence settles between us, thick and loaded. Then, I release a snarl of frustration. “I can’t do this.”
He dips his head. “I understand.”
I throw my arms in the air. “No, you don’t. I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe with you watching me, acting like you’re trying to be a gentleman when we both know you’re not.”
He doesn’t block me. “Then go. Take whatever room you want in this wing. Tomorrow, you see your sister. That’s all I can offer.”
My composure cracks. A tear slips down my cheek, and I dash it away furiously.
I shake my head. I don’t trust myself to say anything coherent.
Right now, I’m a mess of fury, heartbreak, and an undercurrent of attraction that I despise.
I can’t let him see how confused I am. “Don’t follow me. Don’t come knocking.”
He nods, stepping aside. I storm toward the door, fumbling with the handle before yanking it open. As I cross the threshold, I pause and glance over my shoulder, determined to have the last word. “This marriage may be legal, but it sure as hell isn’t real. Don’t forget that.”