Page 69 of Ivory Oath

I was worried none of them would fit now that I’m getting close to ten weeks pregnant, but they all fit perfectly. I settled on a white off-the-shoulder number with lace sleeves and a long skirt, and against all odds, I actually feel like a bride.

What really drives home that feeling is turning to face my husband. The man I love so much I’m going to marry him twice.

Mikhail is wearing dark chinos and a cashmere sweater that highlights his broad shoulders and tapered waist. There isn’t a tux in the world that could make him look better than he does right now.

Plus, a sweater is easier to peel off, so the pros definitely outweigh the cons.

He holds out a hand to me, the edge of his full mouth tilted upward. “You ready?”

“Always,” I breathe, moving to stand next to him.

The last time we stood like this, I wanted to hate Mikhail with every fiber of my being. Part of me really did hate him.

I hated him for tracking me down and upending my life.

I hated him for forcing me into what he promised would be a loveless marriage with him.

Most of all, I hated him for making me want him so badly when I thought he didn’t want anything at all to do with me.

Now, I know the truth—and I couldn’t pretend to hate him even if I tried.

We make our vows in a happy daze, which must mean Anatoly didn’t try to sneak anything ridiculous into the ceremony. Even if he did, I might not have noticed.

“By the power vested in me by VowOrNever.com,” Anatoly intones with all the seriousness he can muster, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mikhail, you may kiss your bride.”

Mikhail snaps me against him and grips my jaw with firm fingers.

“Is the kiss legally binding?” I whisper, biting back a smile. It’s the same question he asked after our first wedding. When we left without a kiss and slept in separate rooms. When I was still trying to convince myself I didn’t want him.

Now, I’m putty in his hands. Even while I’m teasing him, my head tips back and my lips part.

“No, it’s not,” he says, leaning over me. His breath is hot on my skin. I shiver. “But we’re doing it because I really fucking want to.”

The kiss is gentle, but desire is threaded through every second. His fingers flex on my jaw. His hand tightens around my waist. As he parts my lips and sucks the tip of my tongue, I feel the restraint required not to take it further.

Restraint I sure as hell don’t have.

I cling to him, moaning softly into his mouth like we’re alone. Which we definitely are not. Anatoly clears his throat once. Twice.

“Alrighty then,” he finally announces. “I now present Mr. and Mrs. Novikov.”

Mikhail slides his hands to my waist and pulls me gently away from him. “Later,” he promises, squeezing my hip. “Later.”

We all eat a slice of some frozen cheesecake they found in a bodega on their way out of the city. It’s white chocolate raspberry and not half-bad. Then Anatoly announces it’s time for them to go.

“Go where? You’re staying here,” I tell him.

“No,” he says, “we’re not.”

“Anatoly and Raoul are going to take Dante and the doctor back to the mansion for the night,” Mikhail informs me. “They’re going to stay there while we?—”

“Consummate your marriage loudly and energetically,” Anatoly finishes.

I slap his arm. “That’s not funny.”

“It was one hundred percent not a joke. I have no desire to listen to you all through the wall all night. Plus, Dr. Price has been through enough.” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder to where the doctor is sitting in the corner, watching us all with a mixture of disbelief and wariness.

Clearly, he’s not sure what to make of this hostage-situation-turned-wedding. Listening to his captors go at it all night might be the poor man’s breaking point. And as much as I want to correct Anatoly and tell him Mikhail and I can control ourselves, I don’t have a lot of evidence to back that up. What I do have is a flutter deep in my core whenever Mikhail’s body brushes against mine.

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