48. Sasha
48
SASHA
There are kisses, and then there are kisses.
This is the latter.
But then again, this part has always been so easy for us. As I pull Ariel into my arms, lower her halfway to the floor, and press my lips to hers, it’s not that it feels so different than any kiss before.
It’s that it feels exactly the same as the very first time.
The same tremor, low in my stomach.
The same certainty. The same fear.
The same nuclear, undeniable, blasphemous, holy fucking heat ripping through from me into her, from her into me, scorching us both and then remaking us from the ashes, over and over again, a million lifetimes passing with every second.
It felt like this when I kissed Ariel in a bathroom, before I ever knew her name. It feels like that now. And then in so many places in between: libraries and forests, bathhouses and mountains, New York and Paris, day and night, in love and in hate, in lust and in longing. The world has changed shape around us a thousand times. But this—the feeling of her mouth searing against mine—has always, always been here.
Coming back up to standing feels like bobbing back to the surface of an ocean in the middle of a hurricane. It’s wild up here. Everyone is losing their minds.
Feliks learned how to fucking whistle, apparently, and Gina must be to blame, because the two of them are like goddamn tea kettles as they blast off repeatedly.
Zoya found what appears to be an unlimited supply of dry rice. She and Kosti are hurling it at us with matching wicked grins. For a pair of old fogeys, their aim and velocity are both surprising. It’s like getting hit with shrapnel.
Belle is clapping along as Marco starts up on an accordion, which, safe to say, is not my preferred brand of music.
At least Pavel and Lora aren’t actively assaulting us. That’s probably because no one has ever cried as hard as Lora is crying without needing an emergency IV to rehydrate. There is a literal puddle in her lap, and it’s all Pavel can do to keep her upright. Happy tears—I think—but lots of them.
“ Bozhe moy ,” I mutter against Ariel’s mouth. “Can we not have one moment of peace?”
She laughs, the sound pure sunshine. “Peace was never really our style anyway.”
At some point, the hooligans ease up and let us walk down the aisle without an excessive number of projectiles aimed at our heads and eardrums. Laughing, they pour in behind us as we all go to the banquet table set up for the reception.
The tables themselves are as at-risk as my wife and I are. They’re sagging beneath the weight of metric tons of Zoya’s pierogis and bottle after bottle of Marco’s reds.
I nudge Ariel. “Which one of those bottles do you think is our ‘special blend’?”
Her cheeks go scarlet as she elbows me hard in the ribs. “If you breathe a word about that to anybody, I will kill you. Husband or not, you will not be safe from my wrath.”
I laugh as I drape my arm over her shoulders and pull her into my embrace. “You should’ve put that in your vows.”
We settle into our seats in the midst of all our loved ones. Fairy lights shiver in the warm breath of night—fireflies trapped in glass. I count them and shake my head in amazement.
One of them for each time I almost lost this.
I’ve never been one for parties. Too many variables, too many opportunities for things to go wrong. But watching my wife— my wife; hell, I’ll never tire of saying that—glow in the candlelight as she listens to Gina tell a story, I find myself enjoying it in a way I never knew was possible.
I’m at ease. Not at arms, but at ease. Completely unconcerned.
We eat and drink and drink and eat—sparkling water for Ariel, though I think she’s drunk enough on the moment that the lack of alcohol doesn’t bother her in the least. Zoya truly outdid herself, and on a ridiculous lack of prep time, too. In the middle of the long table is the crowning glory: a sturgeon that could feed ten times the number of guests, flesh decorated with paper-thin cucumber slices and fresh herbs. Around it, mounds of black caviar glitter like bullet casings, cradled in delicate blini that release wisps of steam into the perfumed air. Greek dolmades surround the centerpiece in concentric circles, stuffed with herb-scented rice and pine nuts. Belle swears that she’ll take the recipe to her grave. Spanakopita and moussaka, beef stroganoff with mushrooms and sour cream, gleaming buttered noodles, crimson borscht—it’s endless. Obscene. When Zoya dips into the kitchen and comes back with platters of dessert, everyone lets out a horrified groan.
The whole time, Ariel sits beside me, one hand resting on her belly while the other stays linked with mine under the table. She hasn’t stopped smiling since we said our vows.
When not a single person is capable of putting down a single calorie more, Jasmine stands. She’s got her violin in hand. We all fall silent. “Ariel asked me to make something for their first dance. Just… I don’t know,” she mumbles. “It doesn’t have a name. It’s just… well, it’s just the best I could do.”
I rise and help Ariel to her feet. She comes with me, lips parted in the softest smile. “I’m too huge for this,” she protests weakly. “Even if I wasn’t a billion months pregnant, I just had enough food to stuff an elephant.”
“You look beautiful to me,” I murmur.
She blushes and rolls her eyes. “You’re the one who has to watch me waddle in place.”
“Then let’s make it a first waddle to remember.” I kiss her neck, the sensitive spot just below the cliff of her jaw that she pretends not to love. She squirms, laughs, butts her head into my shoulder.
She is everything to me.
When I nod to Jasmine, she begins to play.
The first notes pierce the night air like silver arrows. I recognize the melody immediately—an old Russian lullaby my mother used to hum.
But then, as Ariel and I sway on the grass, it shifts, weaving into something else. A Greek folk song, maybe. Then the lullaby again. Russian, Greek, back and forth, melting into something altogether new.
Beside me, Ariel’s breath catches. Tears spill down her cheeks as she listens to her sister play. Jasmine’s eyes are closed, her body swaying with the rhythm.
I spin Ariel out, then reel her back in, pressing my lips to her temple. “I love you, Ariel Ozerova,” I whisper into her hair.
She melts against me, and I feel her tears dampen my shirt. But these aren’t the tears of fear or grief I’ve seen her shed before. These are the tears of a woman who has everything she ever wanted.
The song arcs into a crescendo. Melancholy transformed into something else. Alchemized. From grief to gratitude and then to something beyond.
One last note. It lingers, echoes, triples, fades… Then the cicadas begin to sing along.
Nothing has ever been more perfect.
From there, the dance floor fills in. Gina connects to a speaker and starts blasting music, and I’ve had enough wine to let Ariel keep me out there. Feliks twirls Gina, Marco has Belle dizzy with affection, and even Pavel is taking awkward with Lora, shuffling steps from side to side, somewhat in tune with the beat.
Ariel’s laugh warms the hollow of my throat as we dance—her hips cradled in my palms, my chin hooked over her shoulder.
But when I glance over at the table, I frown.
Because Zoya is sitting by herself.
I scan the garden as I sway with Ariel, keeping my movements smooth so she doesn’t notice my sudden tension. A quick headcount reveals one missing.
Where is Kosti?
My arms tighten fractionally around Ariel’s waist. She hums contentedly and nestles closer, completely unaware that anything might be amiss. Her pearls catch the fairy lights as she moves.
“Happy?” she murmurs against my chest.
“More than I deserve to be,” I answer honestly, even as my eyes continue their sweep of the perimeter.
Twenty minutes ago, Kosti was right there by the wine station, trading war stories with Feliks. It could be anything. He could’ve been sent to the kitchen to replenish the water pitchers. Hell, he could’ve stepped inside to take a piss.
But the space where he should be is glaringly wrong. Like a face savagely ripped out of a family photograph.
I press a kiss to Ariel’s temple, breathe in the familiar peach scent of her hair, and catch Feliks’s eye over her head. Kosti? I mouth.
His brow furrows. He does the same sweep I just did, then meets my eyes again.
Both our frowns tilt further downward.
A slight tilt of my chin is all it takes. He passes Gina to Lora and immediately makes his way toward the villa, whistling happily, casual enough not to draw attention.
“What are you thinking about?” Ariel asks, pulling back to study my face.
I school my features into perfect contentment. “How beautiful you look in candlelight.”
She laughs and swats my chest. “Smooth talker. Do you think you’re getting lucky tonight or something?”
“I did have plans for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” She grins seductively. “What kind of plans?”
We turn another slow circle. Through the windows, I track Feliks’s progress through the villa’s ground floor. No sign of alarm yet, but the knot in my gut won’t ease.
Not tonight, I think fiercely. Whatever this is, it can’t happen tonight.
But then Feliks appears at an upstairs window. Kosti’s room. Even from here, I can see his face is stricken and pale.
He crooks his finger at me.
Come here.