Page 45 of Scarlet Vows
I look at her. “I’m ready.”
Once I take a deep breath, we go into the chapel.
My head swims with each step, and I’m glad Isla’s there to anchor me, even as the dizziness attacks my head, joining with the anxiety threatening to drown me.
I meet Ilya’s steady gaze, and the bottom falls out of my stomach, all the turmoil falling free until it’s just him and me and this moment.
I stand rooted to the spot.
He’s so devastatingly handsome in his dark suit, the cream silk tie giving him the look of formal evening wear.
He’s elegant, gorgeous, and manly, and he glues his dark-brown eyes to me, offering me a silent, strong wall of support.
It’s a special kind of reassurance. And it calms me.
I can do this. It’s Ilya, so of course I can.
More than that, I have to. For his sake and my own.
When I reach him, I almost swoon, and he holds out his hand.
Without looking away from that steady gaze, I hold outthe bouquet, and Isla takes it. Isaak is there, but I don’t have the bandwidth to look at him. All I have is Ilya.
When his fingers close around mine, my skin and blood buzz, making me feel alive while simultaneously making me calm, connecting us both.
The ceremony is quick and to the point, and I couldn’t tell anyone a single word that was said except for our I dos.
The pastor announces us as husband and wife, and we exchange the rings.
It’s not until the pastor says the final words that reality tumbles back in.
“You may kiss the bride.”
I look at Ilya.
He leans in, his mouth at my ear. “Trust me,malyshka.”
Then he kisses me.
As kisses go, it’s perfunctory. A brush of his lips against mine… No, not even against them; they brush past mine in the briefest of contact.
But it feels like it’s more.
Something bursts to life inside me, and sparks cascade. A flutter of feelings, at once new and old, are born.
It’s something I haven’t felt since Max.
Guilt crushes down.
Guilt and a terrible awareness. The feeling that a small brush of flesh against flesh brought to life is nothing more than a betrayal to Max. And to his memory.
I smile, but as we head down the aisle, our friends snapping photos, Ilya pulls me to a stop in the doorway of the chapel.
He lifts my chin, searches my face, then pulls me close to whisper to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, lying. “I’m fine.”
But I’m not.
