Page 13 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Nine

ALINA

I can’t breathe. The world keeps fading into patches of black, and my body doesn’t seem to feel like my own.

I pour a healthy glass of vodka and then down it, trying not to splutter at the burn from the now room-temperature liquid.

Today’s my wedding. Everything’s set up, our license, all of it. We’re due at the tiny chapel—a chapel—in about five hours, so I figure an early morning tipple of vodka would help.

It doesn’t.

It just makes my stomach turn and roil. I squeeze my hands hard as I sit on the edge of the bed. The cream dress Isla and I shopped for yesterday mocks me.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Marrying Ilya, one of my closest friends. It’s a different friendship from other men that I’ve had, and different from Isla. I know it’s because he’s Demyan’s best friend, and I grew up around him, at least when I wasn’t off at school, but that should make him like a brother, not…not a man .

I fall back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over my face so I can scream.

This is a fake marriage, so why does it feel so real in all the ways that seem to matter to me?

The realness triggers me.

Of course it does. I lost Max.

At my wedding.

In the most horrific way possible.

I pull the pillow off my face and gasp, trying to get air in deep. But the room doesn’t have any air, it seems.

I scramble for my phone. “Isla, can you come now?”

“Ten minutes.” She hangs up.

My phone lights up.

Isla

Breathe.

Breathe.

brEATHE!

When she arrives, Olga tells Maize, Isla’s daughter, that she’ll bring her a treat.

The little girl beams. “Toys!”

The living room has a box of toys Sasha likes to lord over, although he’s extremely generous with his sister when she forsakes her toys for his.

Hers are in here, too, but there’s just something about Sasha’s box that makes kids want in.

I let her play with them, her own bag of toys Isla brought with them abandoned.

“Okay, so you’re in panic mode? You don’t have to tell me. I heard it in your voice, Alina.”

I bite my lip. “I just… What if I’m betraying Max?”

“You’re not.” She sighs and guides me to the sofa as Olga comes in with a milkshake and cookies for Maize and coffees for us.

She sets it all down and then leaves us .

“But,” Isla says as she takes my hands, “maybe this is your body’s way of telling you this whole fake marriage is too much.”

Tears spill, and I wipe them savagely away as I shake my head. “No, I can’t screw Ilya over like that. This is too big to suddenly go and change my mind. He’s been there for me, always. And this isn’t much. He didn’t even ask. I pushed. I’m not… I can’t back out.”

“Sweetie, you know Ilya would understand. He’s always put you first, put your mental health first.” She pauses. “Why do you think he didn’t ask you?”

“Isla,” I say. “I’m aware, but if I back out now, it’ll make it hard, if not impossible, to meet the requirements of his inheritance. I can’t and won’t do that to him. I’m doing this, going through with this wedding, no matter what it takes.”

Isla nods and gets up, going to the wet bar. She comes back with a bottle of Jameson. Demyan has way more expensive stuff, but we both like this one.

She opens it and pours a healthy slug into both our coffees. “This morning, we’re Irish.”

“Momma, look!”

We both look at Maize, who’s built a wonky little wall out of Legos.

Isla casts me a glance. “Mom’s on her way to get her for some quality grandparent-grandchild time. Her words.” Then she gives her attention back to her daughter. “Very good, Maize.”

Maize swivels to me, demanding my admiration. “Aunty Lina?”

“Amazing.”

She blushes and beams. “I know.”

I take a sip of the coffee, then another. There’s enough whiskey to just make it warm in my throat in a way that’s got nothing to do with the temperature. Isla upends more into my cup so it’s more whiskey than coffee.

Isla nods at it. “Drink up. It’ll help. See?” She holds up her own and adds a little more. “I’m joining you.”

I chuckle and drink it in two big gulps, wincing at the burn it gives. But it’s a good burn that rushes to my stomach, settling it in a sea of heat. Minutes later, my nerve endings start to calm.

When Isya’s mom picks up Maize, we head up, the whiskey bottle in Isla’s hand, to get me ready.

We don’t really drink that much more, since I’ve drunk just enough to make me float through what would be an anxiety-ridden process.

I shower, then Isla does my hair and makeup, and I dress.

Then she rushes downstairs and returns with two bags. “Don’t touch that one.”

She points to the one that has two big white boxes inside that diffuse a flowery perfume, so I know what’s in there.

As she showers and changes into her bridesmaid outfit, a pretty dress she decided she needed in sapphire blue, I pace.

“The car’s here,” Olga calls from outside my room, right as Isla puts the finishing touches on her lipstick.

“They can wait.” She opens the first box.

I’m not wearing a veil, but Isla pulls out a metal comb that has fresh rosebuds and wildflowers threaded through the top of it. She puts it into place.

Then she hands me a bouquet and takes out a smaller second one.

“Are you sure?” Isla asks.

No, I’m not. “Yes.”

I stare into the mirror at the long cream silk gown. It’s simple, elegant, and a world away from what I wore as Max’s bride .

The only thing that even begins to make me look bride-like is the bouquet of flowers.

Isla stands next to me and snaps a selfie, then she takes the bouquet.

We look like two friends going to an elegant event.

I look like a girl just helping my friend get his inheritance.

She offers me her arm. “Let’s go do this.”

The chapel is outside of Chicago, and I’m not about to ask how he got it. We’re not religious, and I’d have preferred just doing this in front of a judge or celebrant or whoever.

But I know why.

This makes better pictures.

To anyone outside looking in, this makes it look real.

As we drive up the winding road, the effects of the booze vanish, and the closer we get, the more my anxiety starts to rise again as my heart hammers and my throat seems to swell shut.

When we pull up, a young pastor is outside, or maybe it’s just a celebrant in black. I don’t know. I don’t ask. I just grip Isla’s hand tightly.

“We can?—”

“No,” I say, “we can’t. We’re doing this.”

After I greet the man marrying us, he enters the building of worship.

Ilya is in there. Waiting by the altar. His friend Isaak will be there too. And I…

I can’t move.

I look at Isla.

“Your move, girl,” is all she says.

So I try to gather my courage, to fight the anxiety and the guilt. I look for Max and his guidance. But I can’t find it .

I know what he’d say if he could speak to me. He’d tell me my happiness is the most important thing, and to get that happiness, I have to move forward. I have to let him go.

But letting him go scares me.

We once talked about it, and he said no matter what, he’d be there. If I decided to leave him, he’d be there. If something happened and I moved on like he said I should, he’d be there, always. Because he loved me.

But I don’t feel him.

I can’t hear his words.

And Isla isn’t saying a thing, either.

Just giving me space and silent support for whatever I decide to do.

Finally, I know what I have to do. The space the ghost of Max and Isla gave me fills with resolve.

I look at her. “I’m ready.”

Once I take a deep breath, we go into the chapel.

My head swims with each step, and I’m glad Isla’s there to anchor me, even as the dizziness attacks my head, joining with the anxiety threatening to drown me.

I meet Ilya’s steady gaze, and the bottom falls out of my stomach, all the turmoil falling free until it’s just him and me and this moment.

I stand rooted to the spot.

He’s so devastatingly handsome in his dark suit, the cream silk tie giving him the look of formal evening wear.

He’s elegant, gorgeous, and manly, and he glues his dark-brown eyes to me, offering me a silent, strong wall of support.

It’s a special kind of reassurance. And it calms me.

I can do this. It’s Ilya, so of course I can.

More than that, I have to. For his sake and my own.

When I reach him, I almost swoon, and he holds out his hand.

Without looking away from that steady gaze, I hold out the bouquet, and Isla takes it. Isaak is there, but I don’t have the bandwidth to look at him. All I have is Ilya.

When his fingers close around mine, my skin and blood buzz, making me feel alive while simultaneously making me calm, connecting us both.

The ceremony is quick and to the point, and I couldn’t tell anyone a single word that was said except for our I dos.

The pastor announces us as husband and wife, and we exchange the rings.

It’s not until the pastor says the final words that reality tumbles back in.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I look at Ilya.

He leans in, his mouth at my ear. “Trust me, malyshka .”

Then he kisses me.

As kisses go, it’s perfunctory. A brush of his lips against mine… No, not even against them; they brush past mine in the briefest of contact.

But it feels like it’s more.

Something bursts to life inside me, and sparks cascade. A flutter of feelings, at once new and old, are born.

It’s something I haven’t felt since Max.

Guilt crushes down.

Guilt and a terrible awareness. The feeling that a small brush of flesh against flesh brought to life is nothing more than a betrayal to Max. And to his memory.

I smile, but as we head down the aisle, our friends snapping photos, Ilya pulls me to a stop in the doorway of the chapel.

He lifts my chin, searches my face, then pulls me close to whisper to me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, lying. “I’m fine.”

But I’m not.

I’m not fine at all.

All through dinner, I smile as big as I can, laugh as much as I can, and let Isla and Isaak flirt and carry most of the conversation.

They take photos, making Ilya touch me more than I can take, because each touch zings through me now, and I’m drowning all over again.

He’s good at taking part in the conversation, acting at ease, and maybe he is. Maybe he doesn’t think a thing has changed. After all, we both know we’re just friends.

But occasionally he slides me a look that holds concern, so I just smile bigger, and I think I even fool Isla.

When we go to the bathroom, she tells me she forgot how good-looking Isaak is, that he doesn’t seem as obnoxious as she once thought he was, and that I came through this better than she figured.

But honestly, I’m happy when the evening winds down.

That’s when Ilya smooths my hair. “I’m going to ask again. Are you okay?”

I don’t give him the big smile. I give him the one that’s tired from the stress and guilt. “It’s been a long day, that’s all. I’m tired.”

“You look tired. We’ll go, then. These two can take care of themselves.” He lifts his head. “Alina’s in need of sleep, so I think we’ll call it a night.”

“We’re going to get a drink, and I promise to be a gentleman.” Isaak holds up both hands at Ilya’s glare. “And I’ll make sure Isla gets back to her mom and her daughter safe and in one piece.”

“You do that.” Ilya flashes him a warning look. “I know guys.”

“You are the guys,” Isaak says, seeming not at all threatened .

I hug them both, and then I leave with Ilya.

My husband.

My fake husband who made my heart flutter.

We get into one of Demyan’s limos, and the driver is a good man. I think he’s dating Olga, because I often see them close to each other, talking.

At first, I think we’re heading to my home, but we’re not.

Instead, we go to the Belov Bratva mansion.

It’s possibly even more majestic than ours. The grounds look bigger, grander. Demyan would roll his eyes at the blatant display of money.

When we pull up, Ilya comes around and opens the door, then he leads me into the mansion. People wait inside to greet me as the new lady of the house, but I start for the stairs instead as Ilya dismisses them.

He then follows me. “You’ll have to meet everyone tomorrow?—”

“I’m going to bed.” With that, I race across the first-floor landing to the second set of stairs before he can say anything else.

When I get to the second-floor landing, I stop, suddenly realizing I don’t know where I am or where anything is.

Heat burns within me as my heart thuds. I turn and trudge down the stairs.

“I don’t know where my room is,” I whisper, hoping he can’t see the tears that blur my eyes.

Ilya opens a door but doesn’t enter. He just stands on the threshold and points inside.

“It’s okay. It’s been quite the day. Svetlana runs the mansion.

She’s sweet, so she figured this room would be something you might like.

There’s a bathroom, a huge balcony, and a big bed she made up.

Actually, it’s the main bedroom. I took a different room on the floor below.

And you can redo this one however you like. ”

It’s three times bigger than mine at Demyan’s, and the balcony is huge. It must run around this half of the mansion, which makes sense since the main room seems to do that, too. I’m guessing there’s also a huge walk-in closet.

The room is stunning, and even though I’m not in the mood to plan it, I already know I’ll take out all the heavy things and redo it as modern and bright.

But even as I think that, my eyes prick harder with tears.

He’s giving me the biggest room, and by telling me he’s already got his room on a different floor, he’s reinforcing that this is friendship based and that he won’t try anything.

Why does he have to be so nice?

“Isla sent over some clothes for you. They’re in the closet. I’ll leave you to get some rest. I’ll be here if you need me, but otherwise, take all the time and all the space you need.”

“Thank you, Ilya,” I whisper.

I gulp as he stands on the threshold, not coming in. I cross toward him and take the door.

“Good night.” I close the door in his face, an act of unforgivable rudeness.

But I have to, because the moment the door shuts, the dam breaks and the tears flow.

I stumble to the walk-in closet, pulling out the comb and stripping off the dress, and grab a T-shirt.

Then I throw myself onto the bed, my emotions taking over. I should be with Max.

I cry until I can’t cry anymore, and then I get my phone and scroll through old photos of me and Max together. Max is gone. I can’t bring him back, and losing him hurt so much.

The thought of that happening again, of exposing myself and my heart to pain and loss all over again, is too much.

If I let myself care more about Ilya than I do now, I’d never survive losing him. Even now, I’d be completely devastated .

But to let us be something?

It’s too much. And even though it’s not on the table, I have to make sure it stays that way.

No matter what, I have to protect my heart from that kind of pain again.