Page 84 of Beautiful Cruelty

How many other girls had he saved?

How many canIhelp him save by doing this?

"I have a podium I can use as a stand-in for the lectern," Irina announces, breaking through my spiraling thoughts. "But it's the motion of slipping the bible in and out of the dress that's the most important part."

"Thank you, Irina Savinovna." Vadim's voice is low and rough. He hasn't taken his eyes off me.

"I'll go ahead and get it all set up," Irina says, gathering her things. "But please, take your time discussing any other details you need to."

She gives me a knowing look before slipping out, leaving us alone.

The air feels charged between us. Vadim pushes off from the wall and takes a step toward me, his movement deliberate and graceful. My heart pounds against my ribs as he approaches.

I turn to face Vadim fully, my wedding dress rustling with the movement. "Irina told me everything. About how you saved her." My voice drops. "About the girls you're rescuing."

His expression shifts, a flash of vulnerability crossing his features before his mask slips back into place.

"And?" His question hangs between us.

"What you're doing matters." I meet his gaze steadily. "If I can help save even one person..."

His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks. "Thank you,zvyozdochka."

The raw gratitude in his voice makes my chest tight. But a fresh question burns on my tongue. One about his mother, about the monsters still haunting him.

But something in his eyes stops me.

This isn't the time.

Instead, I reach up and squeeze his wrist gently. The moment stretches between us, charged with things unsaid.

"Ready." Irina's voice beckons us.

Vadim's hands fall away from my face, but his eyes linger on mine for a heartbeat longer before he steps back. "Shall we?"

My fingers intertwine with Vadim's as we walk to where Irina has positioned the podium. The silk of my wedding dress whispers against the floor with each step.

My heart flutters at how natural it feels to hold his hand, how perfectly our fingers interlock. The warmth of his palm against mine sends tingles up my arm, and I find myself squeezing his hand just a little tighter than I need to.

"The ceremony follows strict Orthodox tradition," Vadim explains. "We circle the lectern three times, and on the third circle, we place our hands on the bible to receive his blessing, that's when Demyon creates a distraction."

“And we make the swap?"

"Yes." His thumb traces small circles on my hand, sending goosebumps up my arm. "Speed is essential."

I study the podium, imagining the real lectern in Paris. "Is it your hand on the bible, or mine?"

He looks at me, an impressed smile curling at his lips. "Yours."

"We should have a signal, so you know exactly when I'm ready."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Something subtle." An idea strikes me, and I brushing my thumb lightly across his hand. "Like this. Quick, but clear."

He lays his hand on mine and repeats the gesture. My heart flutters at it. It feels so natural. So right. Like it's something he's practiced a thousand times before.

The warmth of his touch makes my cheeks flush. I focus on the podium instead of how he's setting my skin alight.

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