Page 46 of His Forced Bride
Instead, Yuri's hand finds the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and he pulls me against himself.
His mouth claims mine with an intensity that steals my breath, demanding rather than asking, possessive rather than gentle.
It's a clash of teeth and tongues, despite my trying to keep my mouth shut.
Unwanted heat floods through me, confusing my senses even more.
His lips are firm and warm, and when his tongue traces the seam of my mouth, my knees nearly buckle.
The kiss lasts forever and no time at all, and when he finally pulls away, I'm dizzy.
I have to hold his hand to avoid swaying off the steps.
The crowd erupts in applause.
Rice flies through the air, landing in my hair and on my bloodstained dress.
People surge forward to congratulate us as the recessional begins to play, and the manufactured joy on every single face only makes me feel sicker.
"Such a beautiful ceremony," someone says, grasping my hand.
"You look radiant," another adds, apparently blind to the stains on my gown.
I smile and nod and say the appropriate things, but I feel disconnected from my body, as if I'm watching someone else play the role of happy bride.
Yuri's hand rests on the small of my back, warm and possessive, and I can still taste him on my lips.
I search for but don't find the emotions I'm looking for—rage, fear, fury.
The only thing inside my chest is heavy numbness, a hollow sensation that weighs down every step and lasts for hours.
The reception that follows blurs together—toasts I don't remember, conversations that slide past me, a cake I can't eat.
Through it all, Yuri hovers so close to me, no one can get a word to me without his hearing it, and when anyone seems hesitant or questioning, he dismisses them before I can get my wits about me.
Finally, mercifully, it ends.
The guests filter away, returning to their own lives and leaving us alone.
Yuri helps me into the sedan, his hand gentle on my elbow, and we drive back to the compound in silence.
The house feels different when we arrive, darker somehow, more oppressive.
Rosa meets us at the door with congratulations and offers of food that I decline.
My appetite disappeared hours ago.
I don't know if I will ever eat again.
"I'll show you to our room," Yuri says, and the words feel like a cold splash of water on my face.
Our room—not the guest room I've been staying in.
He leads me up the stairs and down a hallway.
We stop at a set of double doors near the end of the corridor.
"Our suite," he says, pushing the doors open.
