Page 3 of Dark Prince

“And what if I refuse?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

Sharon's smile is thin and cold. “You don't have that luxury. This marriage is happening with or without your consent. It's for the good of the family.”

Her words sealed my fate, leaving me feeling helpless and trapped. I have no choice, no voice in this decision that will alter the course of my life forever.

“You have ten minutes before the ceremony begins. Freshen up as best you can. And don’t get any ideas about leaving; there’s no way out of this room. Besides, Rory’s waiting just outside to make sure you don’t scamper off.”

“You won’t get away with this,” I snarl at her.

“My dear, I already have.”

With that, she’s gone.

Alone once more, I step in front of the full-length mirror that dominates one side of the dressing room, gazing at the reflection staring back at me. For a fleeting moment, the urge to rebel surges through me, to mess up my carefully styled hair, to smear the makeup that adorns my face. But then I think of Carter.

Despite his foolishness and the trouble he's caused, I can't shake the knowledge that his life no doubt truly hangs in the balance. He may be an idiot, and I may be furious with him, but I can't bear the thought of his life being snuffed out because of this mess. My hand falls away from my hair, the moment of rebellion passing.

Before I can dwell any longer, the door opens, and Rory stands there, his imposing figure filling the doorway. “It's time,” he says, his deep voice devoid of emotion.

I nod silently, feeling as if I'm in a dream as he leads me back to the party. The crowd has shifted, now arranged in a manner reminiscent of a wedding ceremony, with an altar at the front and an officiant waiting. My heart races as I'm escorted toward the altar, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Then, I catch my first glimpse of my husband-to-be. He stands there like a statue carved from stone, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He's tall, his posture radiating confidence and power. His black hair is neatly styled, and his piercing blue eyes scan the crowd with a sharp intensity.

His strong jawline is set, and the tailored cut of his suit accentuates his broad shoulders. Despite the situation, I can't deny that he is incredibly handsome—in a dark and dangerous way.

But as I'm led closer, the reality of what's happening hits me once again.

I'm about to marry this man.

As I stand before Lukyan, his towering figure casts a shadow over me, his stony expression unyielding and intimidating. Despite the situation, his mere presence elicits a reaction within me that is both unsettling and undeniable. I feel a strange weakness, a stirring warmth that spreads through me, tingling between my thighs, leaving me bewildered.

No man has ever evoked such a response in me before. Why now, in this moment, of all moments?

My eyes are drawn to the scar that mars his face, a deep, jagged line running from his left temple to the corner of his jaw. It should be off-putting, a mark of violence and brutality. Yet, on Lukyan, it seems to add to his allure, giving him an air of rugged, unchained charisma.

The officiant begins the ceremony, his words a blur as I struggle to grasp the reality that I am marrying this stranger. Lukyan's voice is deep and resonant when he speaks his vows, the words "I do" cutting through the haze of my thoughts.

Then comes the kiss. It's perfunctory—a mere formality in this bizarre ritual—but the moment his lips touch mine, a shockwave of sensation ripples through me. The contact is brief, but it leaves me feeling unsteady as if I might melt right there at the altar.

He slips a ring on my finger, and just like that, it's over. I am now married to Lukyan Ivanov.

Chapter 2

Maura

The sounds of celebration fill the air as the wedding party carries on, a blend of Russian and Irish mob figures mingling in the grand ballroom. Glasses clink, and laughter echoes around me as I'm engulfed in a sea of well-wishes.

“Mrs. Ivanova, congratulations!” a burly man with a thick Russian accent exclaims, shaking my hand enthusiastically. " I never thought I'd see the day when the Flanagans and Ivanovs joined forces.”

I force a smile, nodding politely while my mind races with anger and frustration. “Thank you,” I manage to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

A stern-looking man with a Russian accent steps forward. “You must be very happy, da? Lukyan is a good man, strong man.”

“Yes, very happy,” I reply, my words feeling hollow.

As I navigate through the crowd, a woman adorned in expensive jewelry stops me before leaning in with a curious expression. “Darling, why aren't you spending time with your new husband? It's not every day a woman marries into the Bratva.”

Caught off guard by her question, I quickly fabricate a response. “Oh, my feet are just killing me from these heels, and honestly, I'm so giddy about everything that I can barely keep my head on straight,” I say with a laugh that I hope sounds genuine.

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