Page 74 of Sinful Games

"Are you going to marry me?"

"Y-yes," I replied faintly, every last bit of energy gone.

"Hmm…You don’t sound too convincing. Dve, you-"

"I WANT TO MARRY YOU!"

"Okay, jeez, calm down woman," he chuckled, hanging up the phone and lifting me to my feet. "Come on."

Before I could even open my mouth, the laughter of the men in the other room hit me like a cold slap, reminding me that we were entirely alone, and no one was coming to save me.

Romaniev took my hand, and before leading us to the living room, he gently cupped my chin, wiping away the last of my tears. Our eyes met, his icy blue against my green, like winter colliding with spring.

“You look perfect,” he whispered before guiding me to the noisy room where I knew my destiny would be changed forever.

In the dim, intimate glow of Igor's lavish living room, Romaniev and I stood before a makeshift altar draped in symbols of a union I didn’t want.

The air was thick with the scent of cigars and spices as the Russian Orthodox priest, dressed in ornate robes, began the ceremony.

He guided us through the rituals, each one steeped in ancient meaning. As he placed the ceremonial flames in our hands, their warmth contrasted sharply with the cold knot tightening in my chest.

“May you be each other's clothes, wrapping each other in warmth,” the priest began. “May you be each other's sustenance, sating the hunger of your souls. May you be each other’s treasure, shielding against the trials of life. May you be each other’s remedy, healing each other's wounds. And mayyou be each other’s lifeblood, a sanctuary against the darkness of the world.”

I bit my tongue, barely holding back a scream about how it felt like I was marrying Lucifer himself and walking straight into a demonic circus. But the fear of what might happen if I spoke up kept me silent.

I didn’t want my babushka to die because of me.

With both of our right hands clasped in his, the priest introduced a knife, a glint of steel catching the candlelight. As he delicately cut our palms, the mingling scent of spices and burning candles intensified.

Our wounded hands were brought together, and a piece of lavender-scented cloth was rolled over our joined hands, a symbol of our intertwined fates, bound not only by vows but by shared blood.

At that moment, it felt like the room itself was holding its breath. Or maybe it was just me.

“May the groom repeat after me.”

Romaniev, his face determined, jaw tight, and eyes blazing like a wildfire, nodded.

“I, Alexsei Romaniev,” the priest began.

“I, Alexsei Romaniev,” Alexsei repeated, his tone sharp and clear.

“Take Caia Mankiev.”

“Take Caia Mankiev,” he said, turning his face to meet my eyes properly.

“As my wife.”

“As my wife.”

“I vow to protect her from any harm, to cherish her, guide her, and love her until death do us part.”

After the priest finished speaking, the room went dead quiet, but Romaniev and I just stared at each other. I couldn’t figure out why he was standing there like a statue—maybe he was finally seeing the mess he’d made, or maybe he wanted out too. The priest cleared his throat, breaking the silence. Alexsei’s gaze, still locked on mine, flickered briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes, with a hint of darkness clouding them.

“I, Alexsei Romaniev vow to protect you, Caia Mankiev, from any harm, cherish you, guide you and love you untildeathdo us part.”

The priest then turned to me. "And now, may the bride repeat after me."

As I began to echo his words, each sentence felt like a weight on my chest.

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