Page 10 of Arranged Curves for the Bratva
I take a deep breath and nod. “Let's get this over with.”
“That's the spirit,” Anoushka laughs, but her eyes are concerned.
I flash them all a brilliant smile—the one that makes my dimples show, the one that hides everything. “I'm fine. Really. This is what I want.”
And with that, I become the official liar of the century.
***
The wedding ceremony is a blur of faces and voices. The old Orthodox church is packed with members of both families, all watching as I glide down the aisle on Nikolai’s arm. God, how I miss my brothers.
White flowers hang from every surface, their scent thick in the air from the sheer number of them. In another life, another day, this might have been the wedding of my dreams. From the decorations to the backdrop, it’s all perfect.
Except, of course, the man I walk toward.
Agafon watches me from the altar, but his face is unreadable, neutral as if he fears an expression will create a permanent wrinkle. Each step gets slower the closer we get, and Nikolai squeezes my arm, giving me courage. I fear he’ll stop here and convince me to back away, igniting a war, so I force myself to pick up the pace.
I force myself to look more confident than I feel.
The moment I reach the altar, Agafon's eyes lock onto mine, and I can't help but notice the frosty gray gaze that meets my own. He gives out a hand, but I ignore it as I walk up to meet him by his side. It isn’t out of spite, just nervousness.
After that, he doesn’t look me in the eye, not once. Not during the ceremony, at least. The priest fires off question after question, asking us to accept our vows, and I respond asprompted, as expected. My breath hitches a few times, and I feel Agafon stiffen beside me.
If that’s even possible, given how he stands like a statue.
I search the crowd as we exchange vows, scanning for one particular face.
Nikandr isn't here. Of course he isn't. Would Agafon even have invited his troublesome younger brother?
At last, I’m asked to give Agafon my hand. He takes it slowly, his touch light but firm. The moment our hands clasp, a shiver runs down my spine. I suck in a gasp, trying to hold it back, but he notices.
His eyes gun right at me, and I feel my heart hammer now as the coldness in them changes to something else. Not warmth, exactly, but an acceptance. Slowly, ever so slowly, he puts on the ring.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest declares. “You may kiss the bride.”
Cheers surround us as my chest heaves in panic. My eyes widen as he leans in, and I can see my fearful face reflected in his pupils. I close my eyes, bracing for an intense kiss, but Agafon's lips merely brush against mine as a formality, nothing more. It lasts just a second, and then it’s over.
For some reason, when we pull apart, I find myself staring at him, acknowledging that unexpected kindness.
His hand rests at the small of my back, guiding me back down the aisle. After that kiss and how he didn’t push my boundaries in any way, I realize I don’t mind his touch as much. A few people walk up to us to congratulate us. Mrs. Letvin, they call me. Real, then. This is happening.
I am Lilibeth Letvin now. The thought makes me dizzy.
***
The reception is an even grander affair, held at the lavish Letvin estate, Agafon’s primary home. There are endless flowers, endless champagne, endless food, and endless congratulations from people I barely know. I keep smiling until my cheeks hurt, and every chance I get, I sneak away to spend some time with my family.
Agafon, however, is always lingering nearby, keeping an eye on me from a distance. I feel like yanking him by his collar to remind him that it’s too late for me to run away now.
“It's time for your first dance,” Sofia whispers in my ear as a planned track begins to play and Agafon walks over to me.
He holds out his hand. I take it.
When we walk to the center of the floor, every eye is on us, and suddenly, I feel even more nervous. The music starts off slow. Agafon pulls me against him, one hand at my waist and the other clasping mine. He moves with unexpected grace for such a tall man.
“You're tense,” he says, his first words to me since the ceremony.
“Am I?” I look up at him, noting the precise angle of his jaw and the way his black hair is combed back from his forehead. This close, I can feel the hardness of his body, the solid wall of his chest against mine. He's so tall that even in heels, I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes.
