Page 26 of Savage Vows
The ceremony ends,but I barely hear the priest after that kiss.
I can’t stop looking at her. My bride.
She stands beside me, still as glass, her eyes moving over the room like she’s mapping exits. Every so often, her gaze flicks toward me, quick enough to pretend it’s nothing.
I glance down at the band on my hand. Plain gold, heavier than it should be. I didn’t buy her one. But this—this is the one she gave me.
A flicker of memory, smoke in a dark room, the brush of someone slipping past me. But no—if we’d met, I’d remember.
Wouldn’t I?
She turns her head then, catching me looking.
We’re steered toward the front of the church where both families are gathering. It’s all smiles on the surface, the kind that never reach anyone’s eyes.
My father sits off to one side in his chair, watching like a man who already knows how this will end. The Petrovs cluster together—uncles, cousins, people who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
Polite greetings pass between the mothers. No one says congratulations.
Misha stands close to Adriana, his hand in his pocket like he’s holding himself back from stepping in. I catch the way his gaze cuts toward me, cold and measuring, and the way she places a light touch on his arm, a silent signal. He eases, but just barely.
One of her uncles finally speaks. “Unexpected change of plans.” His tone is casual. The look he gives me is not.
I meet his stare until he looks away. “Life’s full of them,” I say.
Her mother clears her throat. “We wish you both…peace.” The pause before the word says she means something else entirely.
Adriana keeps her eyes on the space between our families, the invisible line no one crosses. I can feel the tension crackling there, thick enough to taste.
“Peace would be nice,” Adriana says, eyes steady on her mother.
Her uncle scoffs under his breath. “If you think this will bring it.”
Adriana’s head turns, slow. “You have something to say to me, say it.”
He opens his mouth, but Roman Petrov stops him with a look.
Misha steps in again, eyes fixed on me now. “You treat her right.”
I hold his stare. “She’ll have what’s hers.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Before I can respond, Adriana lays a hand on her brother’s arm. “Go with Mama,” she says quietly.
Her mother squeezes her hand once more, her gaze lingering in a way that makes it clear she wants to say more but won’t—not with everyone watching.
The Petrovs leave first, filing past with nods that mean nothing. Misha is the last to go, his eyes on me until the doors close behind him.
I expect tears. Most women would cry at a wedding like this—tears for their parents, for what they’re leaving behind, for whatever they’ve lost. Her parents didn’t give her much in the way of affection, that much is obvious. Still, I thought there’d be something more than this.
There are tears in Adriana Petrova’s eyes that do not fall. But her back is straight. Her chin is steady. Her hands are still.
She is surrounded by the Volkovs. To her, we are the enemy.
This room wants a celebration. It will not get one. There will be no reception. No clinking glasses, no staged photos, no first toast pretending this is anything but a contract. We end it here.
I touch my cuff and the men clear the aisles of the rest of the guests.
