Page 73 of Ruthless Addiction

“Everything I do,” I whispered, cupping his warm cheek in my palm, grounding myself in the feel of him, “every choice I make... it’s for you.”

His eyes searched mine, solemn, trusting.

Then he nodded once, decisive.

“Okay,” he said softly.

That trust nearly undid me.

I stood, smoothing my gown, and continued down the aisle.

Dmitri Volkov waited beneath the golden dome.

Immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit tailored to lethal perfection, he looked less like a groom and more like a ruler awaiting tribute. No smile touched his mouth. No warmth softened his features.

His face was carved from stone, sharpened by years of power and grief.

Only his eyes moved.

They tracked me with that familiar, unreadable intensity—the same gaze that had once made my knees weak, that had once convinced me I was chosen.

Now it made my skin prickle with unease.

I stopped before him.

For a heartbeat, we simply stared at each other.

The priest—ancient, stooped, hands trembling—cleared his throat and began the rite in formal Italian, his voice gravelly with age. Halfway through, he switched to English, likely at Dmitri’s insistence.

“Dearly beloved,” he intoned, “we are gathered here in the sight of God and these witnesses, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony...”

The words washed over me like water over stone.

Holy.

Matrimony.

God.

I thought of contracts. Of threats. Of a three-month countdown ticking quietly beneath my ribs.

I lifted my chin.

If this was a cage, then I would survive it.

If this was war, then I would endure.

And if Dmitri Volkov believed vows could bind my soul as easily as ink binds paper—as they had the first time he forcedme to marry him six years ago—then he was about to learn how wrong he was.

I was not the woman he broke back then.

And this time, I would not bend.

When it came time for the rings, Giovanni stepped forward with a small velvet box. Inside lay two bands: one platinum for me, one white gold for him. Simple. Severe.

Dmitri moved first.

He lifted my left hand with his long, rigid fingers. Ice against my skin. He met my eyes—storm-grey locking onto mine, a storm contained behind steel lids. Leaning in just enough for my ear alone, he whispered.