Page 52 of Crimson Curse
She smiles into my shoulder. “You made it very easy.”
“It didn’t feel easy,” I sigh, and she laughs again.
When I carry her back to bed, she clutches the ring to her chest as if it might vanish if she lets go. I tuck the blanket around her and stay at her side until her eyes drift closed, her hand resting lightly on my wrist while the moon lays a pale stripe across the floor.
My thoughts wander in the silence to Irina and the folder, to the muted crack of the shot. To Viktor and the arrogance that destroyed him. To Lucien, circling like a wolf. To Sasha, whose ghost still lingers. Tomorrow will bring calls and meetings, power to claim, and enemies to face.
For now, I breathe in and let the house breathe with me. The world beyond these gates can rage and scheme, but within these walls a single truth holds steady. She said yes, and I will spend every day proving I deserve it.
19
NAOMI
It’s been three weeks since Daniil asked me to marry him. The day arrives without fanfare. The morning air drifts through the sheer curtains and paints the room in pale gold. I stand in front of the tall mirror and breathe deeply. The gown is ivory, threaded with the faintest veins of gold that gleam in the light when I move. It flows over my hips and pools around my feet with the soft liquidity of sunlight poured onto silk. The neckline frames my collarbones, and the bodice fits with the kind of perfection that only careful hands and many fittings can achieve.
Charlotte’s reflection comes into view behind mine, her blue eyes glossy, and her pink-tipped hair pinned into a tidy twist that somehow still looks like rebellion. She fastens the final clasp, then sets both palms on my shoulders and meets my gaze in the mirror.
“You look like a queen,” she says softly.
I lower my hands to the small curve under the fabric and hold them there for a moment. “No. I look like a mother who made it out of the fire.”
She leans forward and kisses my cheek, warm and sure. “Same thing.”
Charlotte moves to the vanity and brings me my veil. It is simple tulle edged in a whisper of lace, a token of softness over the architecture of the dress. She lifts it and lets it fall down my back. No pearls. No tiara. No borrowed heirloom or something blue. The only jewelry I wear is a slim gold bracelet with a charm the size of a grain of rice. Daniil gave it to me last night with no speech, just a look that made my heart flutter. Inside the charm, there is the tiniest engraving: N. D. Two letters, one promise.
The door opens, and Lex steps in and closes the door behind him. His black suit is impeccably tailored, his tie is perfectly knotted, and his cuffs are immaculate, yet his eyes sweep the space as if measuring exits and angles. He stops when he sees me, and for a blink, his shoulders loosen just enough to allow him the luxury of being moved.
“You’ve earned this,” he tells me as he comes forward. “Both of you have.”
Something inside me steadies. I nod and lift my hand to his offered arm.
“Thank you,” I reply. “For all of it.”
He studies me silently, then gives one of those rare, almost-smiles that vanish as quickly as they come. “Let’s take a walk.”
Charlotte fusses with an invisible wrinkle near my hip. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. If I cry again, pretend it’s allergies.”
“It is absolutely allergies,” I confirm.
She laughs, beautiful and bright, and then stays behind as Lex guides me to the corridor. We move slowly, not because I’mafraid, but because I want to feel everything that happens in these next minutes. The scent in the hallway is roses and a hint of lemon oil from the polished banisters. Portraits of Zorins from long ago watch us pass with silent opinions I will never learn. The staff we pass are discreet and still, offering soft greetings that feel like blessings.
At the end of the corridor, the garden doors wait with panes of glass gleaming like water. Lex pauses there, and we look out together. White roses climb trellises on either side of the aisle. Gold-dyed ivy winds through the rails. Lanterns hang from the branches, and even in daylight, they glow. A simple wooden arch stands at the far end of the path, draped with ivory fabric that stirs with every small breath of wind.
The gathering is intimate, exactly as Daniil promised. On the left sits his inner circle. Timur wears a suit that strains across his broad shoulders. He has tried to tame his expression and has succeeded only in looking like a granite mountain with a heart hidden somewhere beneath the rock. Roman sits one row back, his posture straight, and his eyes observant. Nikolai has chosen a dove-gray suit and a pocket square that reflects his taste. He is lounging with theatrical ease, though I notice his gaze sharpens each time he looks toward the arch. Maksim is restless, his knee moving, his fingers tapping his thigh until Lex lifts an eyebrow from across the glass, and the tapping stops. A few other trusted faces are there as well, men and women who have served the family long enough to understand the meaning of being invited to a day like this.
The right side is for my life outside this world. Charlotte has taken the front row, a handkerchief already clenched in her hand in open defiance of her allergy story. Beside her sits Dr. Jones from the museum with a warm smile and a string offreshwater pearls. On her other side is Mia from conservation, elegant in a pale dress, her eyes wide with delight at everything she sees. They believe Obsidian Vault is a generous benefactor with impeccable taste. They think they have been invited into a private garden for a quiet ceremony that binds a patron to a curator who captured his attention with her vision. They’re not wrong. They are simply viewing one page of a longer book.
Beyond the chairs stand a handful of guards dressed like ushers, and a greater number around the perimeter in places that eyes trained by Lex would notice and other eyes would not.
Lex opens the door. The air meets my face with a cool kiss, carrying the sweet fragrance of roses and fresh grass. For a moment, I allow myself to feel my father nearby. In Driggs, he used to wake me before dawn on Saturdays and drive us out past the farmhouse line to where the hills rise and the sky goes on forever. We would sit on the hood of the car, sharing lukewarm thermos coffee, and watch the first light stretch across everything we could see. He would say that beginnings matter because they reveal truths that no one else has had time to refine.
Lex offers his arm again. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
We step outside. On instinct, my palm travels to my stomach and rests there for the space of one breath. I don’t hide it or announce it. I simply acknowledge the life that walks with me.
“Your father would be proud,” Lex murmurs, so quietly I almost wonder if I imagined it.
