Page 9 of Lethal Devotion
The warehouse and the cameras and the men, that was all real. The bullets and the blood… I close my eyes briefly, sucking in a breath as a wave of dizziness washes over me. I don’t have time to be faint or weak. I have to be strong. If Damian is telling the truth—and I think he is—then every second matters. What I do matters… and not just for me.
“Sienna,” I blurt out, and when he frowns, I clarify. “My name. Sienna Monroe.”
He nods, his jaw tight. He hasn’t smiled once since we met, although I suppose there hasn’t been any reason to. I certainly haven’t, either. But I can’t help wondering if he ever does. He doesn’t look like a man who smiles.
What will it be like to be married to a man like that?I have no idea. I have no idea aboutanything—what happens after this, what he expects of me, where we’ll live, or what I’m going to do… but it’s clear that I’m not going to be given time to ask questions or figure it out. His hand is on my elbow again, guiding me forward through the pews and toward the altar, and my heart rate speeds up as I realize that this is happening.
I’m getting married to a man that I don’t know. Who I’ve only seen a couple of times at the club. Carmen’s voice echoes in my head—he fucked me like a fucking animal… I couldn’t walk after, I was so sore…
He’ll expect a wedding night, won’t he?Fear pulses through me, but we’re already approaching the altar, the priest looking between the two of us as Damian’s grip on my arm tightens, like he thinks I might run again. Maybe I would. I want to think that marriage to this man, that being in his bed, being hiswife, isn’t a fate worse than death—but how can I be sure?
I can’t. That’s all there is to it. But if Damian’s to be believed, the one sure thing is that leaving this church without saying vows means I’ll be dead before sunrise.
“Let’s get on with it,” I hear him saying to the priest, and I see the priest look at me, as if wanting confirmation that I’m okay with this. That I’m willing.
I don’t know ifwillingis the word I’d use. But I feel myself nod, a quick, sharp jerk of the head, and the priest lets out a breath as if he was holding it, waiting for my answer.
“Dearly beloved,” he begins, as if the pews behind us are full of friends and family, instead of standing empty. I stare at him, feeling as if I’m going to float out of my body, every part of me numb except for where I can feel Damian’s hand on my arm, his fingers pressing into my skin, hot against it. If I screamed now, if I fought, if I tried to get away, I think he might let me go. He’s made the situation clear to me, and if I want to throw my life away, he can only do so much.
I don’t scream or fight or run. I stand there as the ceremony passes in a blur of disbelief and terror, my heart pounding so hardthat I can feel it in my throat as the priest drones through the service. Words that should matter, that should mean something—that in any other circumstance would be sacred. But there's nothing sacred about this. Nothing romantic or beautiful about the way we stand there in the candlelight, Damian’s broad frame looming beside me, his hand gripping my arm tightly enough to remind me that the choice I’ve been given really isn’t a choice at all.
"Do you, Sienna Monroe, take Damian Kutnezsov to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
My mouth goes dry. The church feels too small suddenly, the flickering candles casting shadows that seem to dance mockingly around us. I can feel Damian's eyes on me, waiting, and I know that hesitating too long will only make this worse.
"I do," I whisper, and the words feel like broken glass in my throat, scraping me raw.
I used to dream about my wedding day when I was much younger. I’m not so innocent now. I know more about the world, more about the ways people are willing to treat one another, the awful things they’re willing to do—though I never knew how bad it could be, until tonight.
I haven’t dreamed about my wedding day in a long time, but when I did, it wasn’t like this.
When it's Damian's turn, his voice is steady, controlled. Like he's ordering coffee instead of binding himself to a complete stranger, when he says "I do."
A strange feeling washes over me—I’m married to this man now, but what does that mean? He said he would protect me… but there are a thousand other facets to this that we haven’t even begun to touch.
There are no rings. The priest intones that we’re husband and wife, and a shudder runs down my spine, my hands balling into fists as I stand there trembling. He tells Damian that he can kiss the bride, and I look sharply up at the man I’ve just married, but Damian isn’t looking at me. He shoots the priest a glare and reaches into hispocket, fishing out his wallet. He tosses a handful of bills onto the altar.
“A down payment on that donation I mentioned,” he growls, and then he’s heading back down the aisle, tugging me after him.
Husband and wife.This man is my husband. I feel briefly dizzy again as I have to nearly jog to keep up with him as he strides toward the door, and I yank at his hold on me. “I did it,” I snap at him, digging in my heels. “I married you. You don’t have to keep pulling me around. Let go of me now?” I take a deep breath. “Please?”
Damian slows, his grip on my arm loosening, and finally, when he seems to realize I’m not going to bolt now, letting go. He looks at me, and I can’t fathom what he’s thinking.
The candlelight flickers over his sharp, chiseled features. I remember thinking, that night when I saw him at the club, that he was beautiful in a predatory, dangerous way. Here, wreathed in the mixture of lamplight and candlelight, shadows dancing over his face, he looks even more so. Like something out of someone’s fantasy—but not mine.
I’ve never wanted a dangerous man. I wanted someone who would be gentle with me. Someone caring and kind. I think of Carmen again, of how she regaled the dressing room with stories of this man bending her over a couch and fucking her like an animal, and my stomach twists, fear and revulsion trickling through my blood.
How did all of this happen?None of this feels real. Earlier this evening I was getting ready for another shift at the club, thinking about bills, about how much I needed to make to buy groceries for the rest of the week, if they’d give me another extension on the light bill. Those worries had seemed desperately pressing at the time, occupying all of my thoughts, making me feel like it was the end of the world. They cost me sleep, made me toss and turn, forced me to plaster a smile on my face when I felt like crying.
I had no idea how much worse it could get. How much worse things could be. And now…
Now I'm married to a man whose name I learned twenty minutes ago, a man who killed people in front of me earlier this evening without blinking.
"I need to go home," I say suddenly, the words bursting out of me before I can stop them.
Damian's eyebrows shoot up, as if he’s confused. Or startled, maybe. "What?"
"I need to go home," I repeat, more firmly this time. "I have things I need to get."
