Page 65 of Poisoned Roses

I am in no doubt about that. Fate has rewarded me and God only knows why, but in this moment, for once in my life, I am unworthy of what I am about to receive.

Throughout the prayers, I stare into her stunning eyes and she doesn’t flinch. If anything, her hunger matches my own.

After the prayers are concluded, Valentin and Polly step forward and hand the priest our rings and as he places them on our right hands, I note her eyes glittering with emotion. There is no engagement ring already adorning her delicate finger. That is a sore subject that may never be repaired. It doesn’t matter. My bride doesn’t require jewels to make her sparkle. She does that on her own without any manufactured help.

The priest leads us to the center of the church where it amuses me to stand on a piece of rose-colored fabric which symbolizes our entry into a new life. The irony isn’t lost on me. Roses are what began this journey, and it appears they will end it. Everywhere I look are red roses. On every surface, in the hands of the guests and decorating the backs of the chairs. Blood-red roses with thorns. That was my request and the traditional rose-colored fabric is merely the icing on the cake.

We publicly profess that we are marrying of our own free will and have not promised ourselves to any other and Tia’s voice is loud and confident as she declares that to the world. Our wedding is being televised to the crowds in Saint Peter’s Square along with the rest of Russia, so the world can watch us commit to one another. The prima ballerina marrying the next potential ruler of Russia.

Fuck that.

After more prayers, the priest orders the crowns to be held above our heads by Valentin and Polly. They were chosen as the only other married couple in our family. The perfect choice for this tradition. As they stand behind us we share a cup of wine and I love how Tia’s eyes hold mine the entire time. She is so beautiful, soft and elegant with a strength I admire and will serve her well as my wife. I’m aware it won’t be easy for her being married to me. I’m withdrawn, surly and unemotional. She is not.

The priest wraps his stole around our joined hands and we are followed by Valentin and Polly, who are still holding our crowns. We circle three times around the analogon on which the Gospel book is placed, effectively symbolizing the pilgrimage of wedded life.

Then we head to the front of the room where, in a break from tradition, the civil ceremony will be conducted. As we approach, mama and Alexei step forward holding bread and salt and as we pass them by, we take our positions for the exchange of the rings.

The ceremony takes a further ten minutes and I am eager to get this over with because I can’t wait a minute more for Tia to become my wife.

When we are pronounced husband and wife, a ripple of applause echoes around the church and as we head outside, the car is waiting with an escort of the deadliest kind. Our tour of the city will be uninterrupted and the traditional photographs of historical landmarks will be taken along with several members of the family at various points along the route.

As the car door closes, I reach for Tia, my hand gently tracing a path down her angelic face, my heart strangely full.

“Mrs. Romanov.” I whisper, loving the meaning behind my words and her eyes sparkle with happiness as she replies, “Mr. Romanov.”

I dip my lips to taste my wife for the first time and as our tongues slowly tangle together, I lace my fingers with hers. The wedding rings a proud symbol of our union.

I have a wife now.

A beautiful, captivating, deliciously sexy wife, and rather than this moment being a business one, I’m shocked to learn it’s the most emotional one of my life.

CHAPTER 36

TATIANA

Idon’t believe I have ever been as happy as I was when I walked toward Titus in the Kremlin. I will never forget my first glimpse of my husband. Tall, dark and handsome doesn’t do the man justice. Tall definitely, so dark in every way, his black heart full of revenge and vengeful promises with a center that is so beautiful it’s like polished ebony.

Handsome doesn’t go anywhere near enough to explain how good looking he is. His black hair gleams, reflected in his sexy dark eyes. His strong jaw was set with pride and his obsidian eyes glittered with emotion as I walked toward him. He is my black-hearted warrior. My protector and my lover. My best friend and the only man I have ever loved.

I am in no doubt about that. Love crept up on me, unexpected but definitely welcome, and as he took my hand, he may as well have taken my heart and locked it safely inside him with his. I am his and I’m happy about that. If we have made a new life together, it will be one of many. I’m aware of that and I welcome it because, for a woman who has been alone for most of her life, I crave a large family more than anything.

I have no nerves, no doubts and no expectations. I am in love and the rest can work itself out as we go along. It doesn’t matter if my husband isn’t there with the same emotion yet. Maybe one day, hopefully anyway, he will love me back.

Two hoursand a million photographs later, we make it back to the glittering reception, our first joint engagement as a married couple. I don’t dwell on the fact Titus was preoccupied in the car. He is obviously deep in thought, and there is an ominous aura surrounding the occasion.

He wants revenge for his father’s death. I’m aware of his wishes and wonder if somehow this event will facilitate that.

As we make our entrance, it’s as if I am accompanied by toxic gas. It’s difficult to breathe under the stench of anticipation.

It’s as if Titus is somewhere else entirely and it’s up to me to dazzle – to shine beside him and deflect the guest’s attentionaway from my brooding warrior who is holding my hand a little tighter than usual.

This is the most emotional I have ever seen him and yet to anyone watching, nothing is different.

I feel it; I sense it and I question it because what happens next may not be in the wedding script.

We join our guests for a feast and yet my hunger is not for the food. If anything, I wish for this day to be over. To be alone with my husband, who may as well be in another country for all the attention he is giving me. I push down my nerves because I’m unsure what is happening right now and as we eat I note the tense expressions of his family. An outsider wouldn’t know any different, but I’m aware of a tangible dark thread running through the festivities and my heart beats with the drum of danger because something isn’t right.

As I eat, I note the impressive guest list. There are many powerful men and women in this room and I smile at Clarissa, who waves at me from her seat. I am touched at the many texts and warm messages she has sent me and we have arranged to meet for lunch when all the fuss has died down.

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