Page 23 of Twisted Vows

“It’s something I like to keep under wraps.” He kisses my forehead and then grabs a bottle of champagne from a bucket.

I wander over to the window and try to gather my wits. I can handle many things, but a madman with a sense of humor could stretch even my impressive capabilities. “The reception is going to be a powder keg.”

I accept the glass he hands me and take a sip. “Do we have a strategy for the fuse that’s been lit, or are we making it up as we go along?”

“It’s our fucking wedding.” He traces the curvature of my cheek. “I want you to enjoy the celebration.”

Unable to square the gentle caress of his hand and the command to enjoy the evening, I let out a huff. “I can barely breathe in this dress, people are staring at us with malevolence, and the cake isn’t even chocolate. There is no good time in sight.”

“We’ll see about that.” He signals to the man standing outside the door. “Anton, my wife wants chocolate cake.”

“I’ll have one delivered to the suite at the hotel unless you want one sooner.”

“The hotel is fine.” Maxsim links our hands. “Is there anything else you desire?”

“Freedom,” I say before thinking. “Or the closest facsimile.” His lashes lower, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or resigned.

“Believe it or not, I understand your wildness and have no desire to tame it…or keep it in a cage.” He tightens his grip. “Against all odds, you’ve found a man who appreciates the beauty of wild things.”

My heart thunders, but I know better than to attribute it to hope. This is a calculated move in what I expect will be alifelong chess game. “No list of rules and expectations? That’s surprising.”

“Word on the street is your mother delivered thousands with little effect, so why waste my breath.”

Five minutes ago, I would’ve sworn that Maxsim was made of carbon steel and didn’t have a kind bone in his body. But now…I’m not so sure.

Is my husband more dangerous and unpredictable than I imagine?

“Are you ready to show our guests a united front so they know we’re invincible?”

I hitch my shoulder slowly. “I haven’t decided yet.”

A dangerous smile lifts the corner of his mouth as if my defiance is precisely what he expected. “I didn’t marry you for your submission.” He traces the rings that mark me as his wife. “But I suggest you save your rebelliousness for something worthwhile.”

The words land between us like a challenge, and I fight the urge to look away. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Good.” He leads me out of the room as I remind myself that no matter how civilized Maxsim appears, he will always be a wild animal. Which means that having the Bratva madman at my side is my best chance of survival.

***

The moment we enter the ballroom, applause greets us, and we are handed champagne glasses. Maxsim raises his in a toast.

His voice is a blade, cutting through the crowd’s murmurs. I watch the reactions—a quiet nod from André, a smirk from Salvatore, and the slightest narrowing of eyes from a Bratva underboss I don’t recognize.

I lift my glass at the appropriate moment and watch him. Every word he speaks is carefully measured, like pieces ona chessboard, positioning himself—and me—exactly where he wants us.

The crowd applauds, clinking their glasses, but I barely hear them. All I can focus on is Maxsim—the way his eyes find mine and the disconcerting attraction I work so hard to ignore.

As the applause fades and the guests return to their conversations, movement from the edge of the crowd catches my eye. Sal Santoro is leaning toward one of the Bratva lieutenants. The exchange is brief—just a few whispered words—who is loyal to whom?

Maxsim squeezes my hand before stepping away to speak with abratok, and I see André weaving through the crowd. He moves like he’s on a mission, his sharp eyes scanning the room before they land on me.

“Ari,” he says, voice low as he approaches. He leans in like he’s about to offer congratulations, but his grip on my arm says this isn’t a warm family moment. “Walk with me.”

I glance toward Maxsim, but he’s too busy talking to notice. “We’re in the middle of my wedding reception, André. I’m not going to make a break for it.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even acknowledge the sarcasm. Instead, he leads me toward a quiet alcove near the edge of the ballroom, away from prying eyes.

“You’re playing a dangerous game now,” he says, voice low and even. His expression is calm, but his eyes betray something sharper. “And I need to know that you’re ready for it.”

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