Page 7

MIA

It happens like in the movies.

The nuptial march starts playing. Heads turn at the sound of clacking heels. The room oohs and ahhs at the sight of the bride, walking up to the altar in a cascade of white lilies.

But the guests in the front row, decked out in all the hues of Gaudy Gold and Pretentious Pink money can buy, aren’t looking at the bride.

They’re following the groom’s gaze.

And at the end of it is me .

Me, who wasn’t supposed to be here to begin with.

Me, who had no idea it was my ex getting married here tonight.

Me, who needs to get the hell out.

“Are you alright?”

A voice next to me snaps me out of my trance. A deep, rough voice, like hot sand and gravel. Mere moments ago, that voice was getting on my last nerve.

Now…

“Mia?”

Now, I cling to it with all I’ve got.

I take in the man at my side. Gray eyes, designer stubble—everything a woman could possibly want in a date.

Too bad it’s all fake.

“Mia,” Yulian demands, with all the authority he’s capable of. The authority that, according to the rumors, keeps the Lozhkin Bratva in line. “Answer me.”

“Let me leave,” I whimper, not caring how pathetic I sound. “Please, let me leave.”

But I know, even as I’m asking, that it’s already too late.

He saw me.

He fucking saw me.

And the groom’s wicked smirk seems to agree.

The music stops. The priest starts talking. The groom’s eyes don’t leave mine for a second.

Fuck.

If this were a different kind of movie, the song would shift into something hopeful. Soft notes, slowly rising in a crescendo, right before the groom’s grand gesture of romance.

If this were a different kind of movie, the priest might be asking the love of my life, who’d look suspiciously like Hugh Grant, “Do you love someone else?”

But this isn’t that kind of movie.

There is no Hugh Grant here.

And that groom—tall, square-jawed, imposing—is not the love of my life.

This is my worst nightmare come to life.

“Mr. Bradley James Baldwin,” the priest says uneasily. “Do you take Miss Constance Julia Lovegood to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Pause.

Pause.

Waytoofuckinglongofapause.

Then, my nightmare decides to one-up itself.

“No.”

Brad’s grin grows bigger as he shrugs off the priest’s question and steps away from his bride like she’s nothing.

“I want her instead . ”

Then he points.

At.

Me.

Chaos erupts. Several guests gasp deep enough to suck the air out of the chapel.

Me? I’m not getting any air at all. If not for the rabbit-quick heartbeat in my chest, I’d think I stopped breathing the second Brad laid his claim on me.

This can’t be real, I tell myself, despite every evidence to the contrary. This can’t be happening.

Not to me.

Not—

“Not again,” I find myself pleading, voice small and brittle. So brittle, in fact, that only the person next to me seems to hear it.

Too bad he’ll never help me.

I’m paralyzed. I can’t move. All I can do is watch Brad walk towards me in long, confident strides.

He’ll get you back.

He’ll get everything back.

And then, he’ll get Eli back, too.

That’s what snaps me out of it.

Terrified, I leap up and sprint down the aisle. My legs feel like jelly, stumbling with every step. The crowd is acting like molasses, trapping me, keeping me from fleeing the chapel like I so badly want to, when?—

“You can’t have her.”

Hands grip me around the shoulders. Strong hands, but not cruel.

Nothing like Brad’s.

Just a few paces away, Brad sneers. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

My eyes dart to Yulian’s. His expression is unreadable, a mask of cool, smooth ice. To anyone else, he would look perfectly calm.

Except that I’m close enough to see what his eyes really look like.

And it’s a fucking storm up there.

With a swift motion, Yulian grabs my hand and tugs me behind his back. I’m left speechless, my mind struggling to catch up to everything the rest of me is witnessing.

Yulian, getting in the way.

Yulian, stepping between me and Brad.

Yulian, protecting me.

No one’s ever done that before.

“I said you can’t have her,” Yulian growls. “She’s mine. ”

Wait, what?

My heart jumps in my throat.

Mine, he said. She’s mine.

Warmth explodes at the center of my chest. I have no idea why, or what it’s about. I just know it’s the second time tonight that Yulian Lozhkin has done something for me no one else ever dared. The second time he saved me.

What I don’t know is why .

My gaze flies between Yulian and Brad. Brad’s face is twisting with fury—a very predictable reaction.

But Yulian?

He doesn’t let go of me.

He doesn’t budge.

He stays.

God only knows what that means.