Page 48 of Carved in Ruin

She’s standing there, and for a second, everything stops.

The dress hugs her perfectly, white and covered in pearls that catch the light. Her short hair is pinned back, soft strands framing her face. No elaborate makeup, just her. Pure, stunning, and more than enough to knock the breath out of my chest.

Her hands grip a bouquet of white flowers. They’re trembling slightly. I notice everything about her. She’s nervous.

I move closer, my eyes locked on her. She doesn’t look away. There’s fire in her gaze. She’s bracing herself, thinking she can stand her ground.

She can’t.

When I stop in front of her, I don’t speak. I let my eyes drag over her, from the bun in her hair to the tight dress and the trembling hands holding those flowers. She’s gorgeous.

She opens her mouth like she’s about to unleash hell, but all that comes out is a flat, “Let’s get this over with.”

I chuckle, low and dark. It’s such a Mila thing to say, biting even when she’s cornered. She doesn’t want to show a crack, but I see right through her. She’s not as unaffected as she’s trying to be.

The papers are on the table. It takes a couple of signatures and no more than a few minutes. That’s it. Done. Final. My name is scrawled beside hers, and just like that, she’s mine in every way that matters.

I glance at Milos. He’s trying to keep a lid on it, but it’s all over his face. Pissed as hell, his jaw tight, his hand twitching like he wants to grab something—or someone. And he can’t stop looking at her.

Good. Let him stew.

All you get is looks, motherfucker.

I step closer to him, leaning in so only he can hear me. My voice drops to a growl.

“She’s mine. Every inch of her, every gasp, every moan—mine. Remember that the next time you think about laying those pathetic eyes on her. She’s Mila Ivanov now, fucker.”

I pull back slowly, my expression blank, and watch the flicker of rage in his eyes. He doesn’t move. He won’t. Yes, he’s her father, but the way he looks at her… It’s anything but paternal.

I extend my arm to Mila, and she hesitates for just a second before she takes it, her spine stiff, her head held high. We walk out together.

Anatoly is waiting by the car, holding the door open. She slides in first, refusing to look at me. That’s fine. She’s got time to adjust to the reality of being my wife.

I get in beside her, and the door closes with a soft thud. The car starts and the mansion fades in the rearview mirror. She’s silent, staring out the window, gripping the bouquet like it’s a lifeline.

This is just the beginning. She’ll fight me, of course, she wouldn’t be Mila if she didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. Because she’s coming home with me.

When we arrive, she stares at the mansion like it’s some kind of nightmare come to life. Her legs shake, and for a second, I think she might bolt—if she even had anywhere to go. Her eyes glisten, but she blinks it back, straightening her shoulders. She always has to look strong, doesn’t she? Even when she’s breaking inside.

I reach for her hand, locking my fingers around hers. She doesn’t pull away, but it’s reluctant. I tug her forward, but her steps are hesitant, her heels digging into the gravel.

I stop, turning to her. “Do you know what tradition says, Mila?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows hard. “What?”

“The bride should be carried into her home.”

Before she can respond, I bend, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, hauling her up into my arms. She gasps, clutching the front of my suit jacket for balance.

“Put me down,” she demands, her voice sharper now, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“No.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

Her fists tighten against me, but she doesn’t fight further.

I walk up the steps, her weight in my arms, and push the door open with my shoulder. The mansion is dark, silent, waiting. It swallows her gasp as we cross the threshold, and the door closes behind us with a solid, final thud.

“Welcome home,wife.”

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