Page 28 of Poisoned Vows

The priest probably wouldn’t skip a beat. And there’s nothing I can say to change any of it.

Dimly, I hear him say that Nikolai can kiss the bride. And I realize, in that exact moment, that Nikolaiisgoing to kiss me, for the first time since he tried to manufacture that “date” with dinner and whisky in front of the fire.

His hands lift the veil over my face, letting it fall down the back of my hair, and his mouth brushes against mine, light but firm. I can feel the possessiveness in it, the ownership. A reminder that tonight, he will kiss me much more intimately. That I’m his now.

Long fingers thread through mine, our palms pressed together. “It’s almost done,” he says quietly, his voice low and rough, and once again, it almost sounds like he’s trying to help me through this. Like he has some sympathy for my situation.

It makes no fucking sense.

But he’s right. This part is almost over. All I have to do is walk with him down the aisle, a smile forced onto my lips as the guests clap politely for us, through the doors to the church nave, and out into the sunlight where a car waits for us, idling at the curb to take us to our reception.

I don’t breathe until I’m inside, until there’s cool leather under my hands, and I suck in the artificially-chilled air, the smells of roses and incense fading and replaced by Nikolai’s cologne as he slides into the car next to me.

“There. First part is finished.” He flashes a toothy smile at me, and I resist the urge to slap the pleased expression right off his face.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, wrapping my arms around my waist as I look out of the window; the car starting to pull away from the curb.

“That’s no way to talk to your new husband.” His hand brushes against mine, fingertips touching. “This doesn’t have to be so bad, Lilliana. We could even enjoy the evening—”

“No.” I grit my teeth, trying to breathe through the urge to cry. I feel panicky, trapped, and I have a momentary intrusive thought of opening the car door and flinging myself into the passing traffic. I could do it. Whatever Nikolai is expecting from me, it probably isn’t that. I could put an end to all of this, with the added bonus that it might haunt his family forever. I can see the newspaper headline already, if they didn’t manage to squash it in time.

Crime family heir’s new wife commits suicide only minutes after their wedding!

I can see Nikolai’s jaw tighten out of the corner of my eye. “You need to be more careful, Lilliana,” he says flatly. “If you ever speak to me like this in front of someone like my father, I can’t always help you. I’ll be forced to punish you, or I’ll have to stand back and let someone else do it. There are rules in this life. Your father should have taught you that before he thrust you into it.”

“I wasn’t meant to be a permanent part of it,” I hiss at him, swallowing hard. “None of this was supposed to happen. So fuck you.”

Nikolai lets out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “Fine,” he says sharply. “We can do this the hard way.”

I don’t say anything else. I focus on breathing shallowly, keeping myself from losing control, as it all sinks in, the gold of my wedding band glinting up at me from my lap. I don’t have an engagement ring—Nikolai didn’t bother buying me one. Which makes sense, of course—engagement rings are forproposals. No one asked me. An engagement ring would have been more of a ridiculous farce than this entire production has already been.

We’re going to go to the reception, and eat an expensively catered meal, and dance so that everyone can see how happy we are, and then—

I swallow hard, knotting my fingers in my lap. I don’t want to think that far ahead.

The reception is on the top level of one of the most exclusive, expensive restaurants in the city, the entire place cleared out for the Vasilev family and their guests. It’s gorgeous—slate walls with one of them entirely glass, overlooking the city, and the rest of it all black and marble tables and decor, smooth and elegant. It’s decorated lavishly with white flowers everywhere, a sweetheart table set up for Nikolai and me, and a space cleared out for a dance floor with a live band already beginning to play behind it. I can see the open-air kitchen from where we walk in, where the staff is preparing to bring out the beginning courses.

If I wanted any of this, it would all be perfect. The space is beautiful, the food is exquisite—all plated like those pretentious Michelin-starred courses in the movies—the wine perfectly paired with every course. I nibble at it, barely tasting the food, and I see a sea of guests that I don’t recognize in the room—and, of course, one that I do. My father, who is dressed in a more expensive suit than I’ve ever seen him wear before, drinking the Vasilevs’ expensive liquor and making conversation with everyone he’s ever wanted to get access to—and all at my expense.

My stomach shrivels at the sight of it. I set down my fork, staring numbly down at a sea scallop prettily plated in a polished shell, with some sort of pea tendrils and an airy mousse around it.

“Is the food not to your liking?” There’s that faintly mocking tone to Nikolai’s voice again, and I swallow hard, trying to bite back the sharp response that immediately leaps to my tongue.

“I’m tired,” I say flatly, looking out at the dance floor. The thought of going out there and swaying in Nikolai’s arms makes me feel genuinely exhausted, and there’s so much night left to deal with after that.

“I wouldn’t expect to get to sleep anytime soon.” His hand finds my thigh, thumb brushing over the silk, and I stiffen under his touch. “But you’ll sleep in the lap of luxury tonight, when you do. I’ve picked out the nicest hotel in the city just for you, little rabbit.”

I’ve never felt as thoroughly caught in a trap as I do right now.

“Who planned all of this?” I ask idly as the next course is brought. “No one asked me about any of it.”

Nikolai shrugs. “Marika, probably? My father’s assistant? Mine? Who knows. I certainly don’t.”

“I haven’t met your mother. I assume—”

“She’s dead,” he says shortly. “It’s just my father, Marika, and I.” He cuts a glance sideways at me, his fork sinking a little too viciously into the thumb-sized filet in front of him. “Which you would have known if you’d engaged with any of the conversations I’ve tried to have with you over the past two weeks.”

If he wants me to engage with himnow, I’m not doing it. I keep my lips pressed tightly together, cutting off a sliver of my own food and slipping it into my mouth, if only to have a reason not to speak. I don’t know why he cares that I haven’t had a conversation with him. Why it could possibly matter to him.

---