Page 6 of Beautiful Scar

Green. Is that bad luck? Probably.

I should be in white right now.

My husband is standing at the altar with the priest. The handsome man with the good hair and the full lips. The man I couldn’t stop staring at. He looks bored or angry, and god, he’s so attractive. It makes my heart race. It opens a dizzying, yawning chasm, and I feel like I’m falling. My chest hammers really hard, so fast my vision is blurry and my breathing is coming in stutters.

Too fast. I don’t recognize the faces in the pews. All men. Bratva, Brotherhood, who knows. I can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

“Urrkkk,” is all I can say.

Choking on my words.

Before I pitch forward in the aisle and fall flat on my face.

Chapter 2

Dasha

“Give her some space. Water, get her some water. Back the fuck off and let the girl fucking breathe.”

Someone’s holding me.

That’s probably not good.

Why am I on the floor right now?

The carpet is scratchy and weird.

Big, powerful arms and a broad, muscular chest grip me tight, which is actually kind of nice. I like the way he smells too: sharp and masculine with a musky edge and a whiskey undertone.

My eyes flutter open, and I’m staring at the ugliest mural I’ve ever seen in my life.

Naked babies in thong diapers shoot arrows at pale, dead-looking winged ladies.

Cherubs. Angels. Right.

I’m in a stinking church.

“Here,pisik,” a voice whispers. It’s low and smooth, like velvet down my cheek. “Drink a little bit.”

A cold bottle of water presses to my lips, and I take a few sips.

“There you go. That’s a good girl.”

My chest patters and my stomach twists.Good girl?God, I really like hearing that. I must still be only half-awake because something flutters between my legs. I drink some more, just to please the big man with the good voice.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, and I twist around.

And suddenly I’m very much aware of what’s happening.

The stranger I’m supposed to marry is kneeling at my side, my shoulders in his lap, one arm wrapped protectively around me.

Dangerously close to my breasts.

There’s a semi-circle of curious faces nearby: Dad and Evan, both looking equally horrified; Valentin Zeitsev; other members of the Bratva; and some Brotherhood men as well. One leans over and murmurs to Valentin, and both stare in my direction.

“Don’t worry about them,” the man whispers. He offers more water, and I turn him down.

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