Page 49 of Ivory Ashes

Raoul would deny it to his dying day, but he feels the same way.

“I’m wearing a pair of ripped jeans and smell like chlorine,” Viviana points out. “That could be a reason to wait.”

“Unless you’ve changed your mind about the consummation, I don’t see why your appearance should make any difference at all to me.”

It doesn’t make any difference to me either way. Bending her over the sofa and taking her from behind would be easier in what she’s wearing now. Some fancy dress with layers of tulle and lace would just get in my way.

“You—” She glances at the priest and then lowers her voice. “You asshole. Can we at least pretend that this is official instead of some under-the table, backdoor deal?”

Anatoly snorts at the buffet of potential dirty jokes sitting in front of him and Viviana tosses him a glare. When she turns back to me, she’s composed, but barely. “When I was engaged to Trofim, there was an engagement party. I had six months to prepare for a wedding.”

“Was six months enough? Were you ready to marry him?”

“That’s not the point,” she huffs. “This is happening too fast. I haven’t had enough time to?—”

“You’ve had six fucking years, Viviana,” I growl, cutting her off. “Tonight, we’re doing things at my pace.”

Her hazel eyes flare, but she doesn’t panic. She doesn’t beg.

Instead, I see the mafia princess in her as Viviana presses her shoulders back, lifts her chin, and turns to the priest. “Forget whatever speech you have prepared and skip to the vows. I want to get this over with.”

My father really had no idea exactly how good of a match Viviana was.

Not for Trofim. He would have beat this defiance out of Viviana until there was nothing left of her. He never would have let this stand. But it’s only because my brother would have looked weak standing next to a woman like Viviana. A terrible pakhan would only look worse next to a proper queen.

And that’s exactly what Viviana is.

The feeling settles over me as the priest skips straight to the vows, just as Viviana ordered.

And when I stand in front of the woman who has weaseled her way into my thoughts for the last six fucking years and call her “my wife,” some primal urge I’ve never felt before rises up in me.

When I vow to protect her and cherish her, I’m not lying.

Viviana is mine.

“This is my solemn vow,” I recite at the end, holding her delicate fingers against my calloused palm.

Viviana rolls her eyes and repeats her own vows through gritted teeth.

A large part of me wishes sex was on the table. The only thing that would make her defiance better is knowing the way she’d melt beneath me later. It’s been six years and I can still feel the way she pulsed around me. Hear the way she moaned my name.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest says, clapping his book closed like he has an Uber to catch. “You may now kiss the bride.”

I want to do a whole lot more to the bride than kiss.

Which is a problem.

This marriage is a business arrangement. Just like it was going to be with Helen. I stood over my first wife’s grave and swore I’d never have another family.

So I won’t. Not like that. When Viviana isn’t around, I won’t think about her. I’m not going to fuck her or fantasize about her. She’s here only so I can keep my son close. So I can have an heir without being a monster about it the way my father was, the way Trofim would have been.

She doesn’t mean anything to me.

Viviana licks her lips and I force my eyes away.

“A kiss isn’t legally binding, is it?” I ask.

The man frowns. “No. Not strictly. It’s a matter of tradition, but most people?—”

---