Page 17 of Crown of Hate

The moon hangs low in the pitch-black sky, and a bed of starlight glitters overhead, their beauty a cruel mockery of the darkness that’s about to consume my life.

At the center of the patio stands an arch adorned with fresh blossoms. It’s meant to be a symbol of love and unity. But the union between me and Mikhail is about as far from love as you can get. We’re enemies, bound by hate and circumstance, and we’ll be just that until the day one of us is in the ground.

Holding my breath, I step beneath the arch, feeling a tidal wave of emotion as I catch sight of Mikhail waiting for me.

His eyes meet mine, and to my surprise—and horror—his gaze is filled with warmth and undisguised desire. My heart lurches painfully in my chest, and bile threatens to burn all the way to my throat.

But I steel my spine and walk up to him, chin held high. Without saying a word, he offers me his hand. I hesitate, staring at it like it’s a venomous snake about to strike. But when I see the warmth in his gaze starting to fade, I panic. My fingers, suddenly feeling tiny and fragile, slip into his huge palm.

Together, we turn to the old priest standing in front of what I suppose passes for an altar in this twisted charade of a wedding.

He begins his sermon, droning on about love and commitment and all sorts of bullshit that has no place here. I’m only half-listening, my attention consumed entirely by the man standing next to me.

I only want to do two things to him: Fuck him until neither of us can walk straight, and then kill him in his sleep.

“You look beautiful tonight, malyshka,” he whispers. “That fucking dress was made for you.”

I turn my head slightly to take in his sharp, aristocratic features. He’s so annoyingly handsome it’s infuriating, and he smells like the most heavenly blend of citrus and cedarwood. “I can’t say the same about you.”

He smiles.

It’s a menacing, beautiful smile.

“Sweet, little liar,” he muses. “I can’t wait to tear that dress off you and make you mine for real.”

God, this man has no filter. And the worst part is, I don’t even mind. If he’s going to trap me in this gilded cage, he might as well make it worth my while. Maybe I’ll finally be able to focus on hating him again after he’s turned my world inside out. My toes curl at the thought.

“You’re practically ancient. Let’s hope you don’t doze off right after we’re done here.”

His laugh earns him a disapproving glare from the priest. “I wonder what else that mouth of yours does, aside from spouting insults.”

“It bites,” I retort dryly. “If you’re thinking of stuffing my mouth, you should know that you might not have a dick to stuff anywhere else after.”

He watches me closely, as if he can’t believe I’m really matching his energy. “Keep talking like that, and I might actually fuck that pretty mouth tonight.”

My teeth sink into my lower lip, and I find my gaze dropping to the impressive bulge in his perfectly tailored slacks.

Damn. Just how big is that thing?

Mikhail towers over me, easily six-foot-four of solid muscle. I’ve heard that big guys built like him are usually small. But there’s absolutely nothing small about that bulge, and it doesn’t even look like he’s fully hard yet.

He catches me staring—of course he does—because he asks with a voice full of amusement, “Checking me out already,huh?”

I jerk my gaze back to the priest, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying over the deafening whooshing of blood in my ears. I’m suddenly burning up, my skin feeling two sizes too small. I need a distraction before I do something stupid, like begging Mikhail to take me right here on this godforsaken altar.

Desperate, I twist around, taking in our surroundings. Other than some stone-faced security personnel and a handful of maids who look like they’d rather be anywhere else, there are no wedding guests. Not that I’m surprised. Why would there be? This isn’t a real wedding. It’s psychological torture. Some kind of twisted power play.

Still, a nagging thought tugs at me: Why isn’t there anyone else here to see Mikhail’s big moment? Does he not have friends? Family? He’s marrying the daughter of the king he overthrew, for Christ’s sake. You’d think he’d want to flaunt me like a shiny new trophy.

It’s all a mystery to me, and before I can ponder it further, I hear the priest suddenly asking me to say my vows. I sneerat Mikhail, but I reluctantly echo the words, each one tasting like ash in my mouth. At the end, I’m given a golden ring that probably costs more than my life. I jam it onto his finger as roughly as possible, secretly hoping it pinches.

Despite my blatant disobedience, Mikhail recites his vows with smooth confidence. When the priest declares us husband and wife, his grin is pure, unrestrained triumph.

Then we’re told to kiss.

Mikhail’s eyes darken to the color of a stormy sea as he leans over and pushes a lock of hair behind my ear with a gentleness that’s more menacing than any threat.

My breath hitches as he snakes his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. It feels like a dream.

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