Page 14 of Unveiled

Rafail snorts and gestures. “She’s here. I heard the details about what happened last night. Do you have a plan?”

“For what?”

He reaches out and adjusts my tie, which is strange, considering he never does shit like that, and I wouldn’t have left the room if it wasn’t already perfect.

“For what you’re going to do with her after you marry her.”

I frown at him. “Consummate the marriage, obviously.”

Eventually. I have no interest in an angry fuck.

Or several.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Do you always have to be so literal?”

I blink at him and shrug. “Yes.”

“Case in point.” We walk down the stairs toward the small gathering of our family dressed in formal attire, ready for the wedding, but Yana’s words ring in my mind…Rafail’s cold shadow.

Doesn’t she know I’m marrying Anya because I’m as committed to our family’s stability as he is?

Rafail continues. “I mean… have you given any thought toafterthe wedding?”

“Yes. I’ll move her into my house. Establish her hours at the bakery with an armed guard with her at all times. Look over her family’s finances and see where the fuck they went wrong and fix that shit. Make it well known she’s mine now.”

Rafail nods. “Interesting.”

I blow out a breath. If people would only state what they actually think, it would be easier. “Why?”

“Because based on what the men said she was like last night, it seems you might have your work cut out for you.”

“How so?”

“She’s defiant as fuck.”

I nod and stifle a grunt. I don’t have time for this shit. “Right. Teaching her her place is a given. Would be boring if she didn’t push back.”

Rafail doesn’t respond at first but finally nods. “Of course you’d saythat.”

I told my sisters to keep it simple, and they listened. The living room in The Cottage, the large, sprawling family home we inherited after my parents’ death, looks untouched. It looks like our home, not a venue.

The wedding party is stripped down to essentials: an officiant who stands by the window, the armed guards stationed outside, visible through the wide plate glass. Rodion’s wife, Ember, holds her camera and gives me a reserved wave when I enter. The family photographer, she has an eye for detail. I crook a finger at her.

“Yes?” she says in a low voice when she reaches me, trying to keep our conversation private. A hard task in a large, nosy family like ours. She tucks a stray strand of bright-red hair behind her ear and blinks up at me, obviously scared. “What?”

“None of these pictures get leaked until I look at them first. Take many. Show no one.”

Her jaw tightens, and her lips press tight. I catalog that too. The girls aren’t happy with me today.

Maybe they’ll be fucking happy with the stability of our family and the credit limits on their fucking credit cards.

Rafail stands stoic and proud beside his wife, Polina, the Romanova family princess. Her long blonde hair spills down her back, and her light-blue eyes meet mine with cold detachment. When I look back, she averts her gaze.

I see Anya standing in front of me and come to a standstill. She came to me, wrapped in an old coat, her hair in a sloppy bun. She wore no makeup, but her fury made her cheeks blush pink and fire spark in her eyes.

Yana told the truth. Anya wears a simple dress, probably borrowed or handed down, its modest lines doing nothing to hide the soft curves beneath. My gaze drags over her, noting the way her neckline exposes the delicate line of her collarbone. Her hair’s loosely tied back, no makeup or jewelry. I note every detail—the way she lifts her chin in defiance as if expecting a reaction to the way she’s arrived.

Sorry to disappoint you, Anya. I don’t care.

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