Chapter 6 #2
"Symbolizing your unity," the priest intoned. "What God has joined, let no man separate."
God hadn't joined us. A treaty had. But the distinction didn't matter to the silk cord tightening around my wrist.
My breathing accelerated. The incense was too thick. The gold was too bright. Everything was too much.
The priest continued speaking. More Church Slavonic flowing over me. The church spun slightly. Or maybe I was swaying. Hard to tell when the ground felt like it might open up and swallow me whole.
Then Ivan's thumb moved.
Gentle pressure against the inside of my wrist where the silk cord bound us together. Press. Hold. Release. Wait. Press. Hold. Release. Wait.
Four counts.
He was giving me the rhythm. Breathing mapped onto my pulse point. In for four as he pressed. Hold for four as he maintained pressure. Out for four as he released. Wait for four in the space between.
I focused on his thumb. On the steady, measured pressure that said he saw me. Saw that I was drowning. Saw that I needed help. And instead of letting me drown, he threw me a rope made of touch and timing.
Press. Hold. Release. Wait.
My breathing steadied. Matched his rhythm. Synchronized with the silent conversation happening through our bound hands.
I looked up and met his eyes. Gray like winter storms. But calm. Steady. Anchoring me when everything else spun.
Thank you, I tried to say with my expression.
The priest asked another question. Something about forsaking all others. About cleaving only to each other. About the permanence of the bond we were forming.
"I do," Ivan said. His thumb pressed once more. Four counts.
My turn. The moment that would seal everything. Make me Anya Volkova legally. Property transferred from father to husband. Tool acquired by a new owner.
But Ivan's thumb pressed again. Patient. Steady. Reminding me to breathe.
And I remembered: he'd given me a key. He'd let me choose a dress. He'd stood between me and Alexei. He'd told me the sex could wait until I was ready.
Maybe this didn't have to be an ending. Maybe it could be something else entirely.
"I do," I whispered.
The words tasted like surrender and hope mixed together. Like dying and being born simultaneously.
The priest smiled. "Then by the power vested in me by the Orthodox Church, I pronounce you husband and wife."
He began unwrapping the silk cord, and I felt Ivan's hand start to slip away. But his thumb pressed one more time before we separated completely.
The church erupted in applause. Volkovs and Morozovs clapping together, probably the only moment of unity they'd share all day. The organist began something triumphant. The priest gestured for us to face the congregation as man and wife.
Ivan's hand found mine again—no silk cord this time, just his fingers threading through mine—and we turned to face the hundred and forty-three witnesses who'd watched me cease being Anya Morozova and become Anya Volkova.
My father stood in the front row with that proud smile he wore when his plans came together. Clara and Eva smiled too, but theirs looked genuine. Hopeful.
I smiled back at the crowd. But underneath, where only Ivan could feel it, my pulse hammered against his thumb.
The reception hall was too loud. Conversations bouncing off exposed brick walls.
Laughter that sounded forced. Clinking glasses and scraping chairs and the four-piece band in the corner playing traditional Russian music.
I sat at the head table with a smile painted on my face and my hands folded in my lap, feeling like a painting on the wall at a gallery.
Look but don't touch. Valuable but fragile.
Edison bulbs strung overhead like captured stars, casting warm light that should have been romantic but just made my headache worse. White tablecloths. White roses. White everywhere, like they were trying to convince everyone this was pure, holy, something other than a business transaction.
Ivan sat beside me. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Far enough that it didn't look presumptuous. He'd barely spoken since we arrived, just maintained that careful presence.
People approached in waves. Volkov soldiers first, assessing me with professional interest. The newest asset acquired. Investment that needed to prove its worth.
"Congratulations, brother," they'd say to Ivan, barely glancing at me. When they did look, their eyes calculated. What skills did I bring? What intelligence? What value beyond the treaty?
Then Morozov soldiers, and their looks were different.
Darker. Some resentment that I got to escape while they stayed behind, serving a pakhan they probably hated as much as I did.
Some pity that I'd been traded like currency.
Some calculation about whether I'd remain loyal to my birth family or transfer allegiance completely.
I smiled at all of them. Performed gratitude. Thanked them for coming.
My father stood eventually, tapping his glass for attention. The hall quieted. Everyone turned to watch Viktor Morozov give the father-of-the-bride speech.
"Today we celebrate unity," he began, his voice carrying that particular false warmth he used for public appearances. "Two families, once divided, now joined through the marriage of my beloved daughter Anya to Ivan Volkov."
Beloved daughter. I wanted to laugh. Or vomit. Hard to tell which.
"The Morozov and Volkov organizations have both benefited from this alliance," he continued. "And we'll continue to benefit as our families work together toward common goals. Tradition matters. Honor matters. And today, we honor tradition by strengthening bonds between our houses."
He raised his glass. "To Anya and Ivan. May their marriage be fruitful and their loyalty unwavering."
Everyone drank. The champagne tasted like ashes in my mouth.
Alexei stood next. Taller than my father. More presence even though his voice was quieter. When he spoke, people leaned in to listen.
"Family means everything to the Volkovs," he said simply. "We protect our own. We care for our own. And as of today, Anya is our own. She's not just Ivan's wife—she's my sister. Dmitry's sister. Part of our brotherhood."
His ice-blue eyes found mine across the hall. "Welcome to the family, Anya. You're safe here. Always."
The words should have been comforting. Should have meant something. But all I could think was: Alexei wanted to debrief me. Wanted my intelligence, my skills, my value. Safe meant useful. Protected meant productive.
Still. His speech was better than my father's. At least Alexei acknowledged I was human.
The food appeared—course after course that I couldn't eat. My stomach was knotted too tight. I pushed things around my plate. Cut my chicken into smaller and smaller pieces. Rearranged my vegetables. Performed eating without actually consuming anything.
Ivan noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand found mine under the table again. Four seconds. Then gone.
Are you okay? his touch asked.
No, my pulse answered against his fingers.
I smiled at another round of congratulations from people whose names I'd already forgotten. Nodded at toasts from Dmitry about brotherhood and loyalty. Accepted well-wishes from distant relatives who looked at me like they were trying to figure out my breeding value.
Then two Clara and Eva appeared at Ivan's elbow, and something in the air shifted.
Clara moved with quiet confidence in her forest-green dress, shoulders back, chin up, like she'd claimed her space and wouldn't apologize for occupying it.
Eva was softer somehow, lavender silk and genuine warmth in her smile, but there was steel underneath.
You didn't survive marrying into the bratva without developing an iron core.
"Alexei," Clara said, her hand finding her husband's shoulder briefly. The touch was casual. Comfortable. The kind of intimacy that came from actually knowing someone. "We'd like to steal the bride for a moment."
It wasn't a request. Not really. Clara Volkov asking her pakhan husband if she could do something was just her being polite. She'd already decided.
"Of course," Alexei said, amusement touching his expression. "Take her. She looks like she needs rescuing."
Did I? Probably. My face was starting to hurt from the forced smile. My body was starting to shake from the effort of holding still when every instinct screamed to run.
Clara turned to Ivan, and there was something in the way she looked at him—assessment, yes, but also familiarity. "We'll bring her back in one piece."
"I don't doubt it," Ivan said. He glanced at me, and I saw the question in his gray eyes: Do you want to go with them?
I managed a small nod. Anything to escape this table. This performance. These calculating stares.
Clara and Eva flanked me as we moved through the crowd, creating a buffer between me and everyone else.
Clara walked slightly ahead, clearing the path with nothing more than her presence.
Eva stayed close to my side, her hand occasionally brushing my elbow—gentle touches that said I'm here, you're not alone.
We ended up in a corner away from the main tables. Quieter here. The band's music was muffled by distance and bodies. The Edison bulbs were less harsh. A small table with three chairs, probably meant for overflow seating, became our refuge.
I sat before my legs could give out. The relief of not having to perform for a moment made me dizzy.
Clara and Eva took the other chairs, angling them so they faced me more than the room. Creating a small fortress. A space where maybe, possibly, I could breathe.
"First bratva wedding?" Clara asked, her voice gentle.
I managed a nod. Words felt too difficult.
"They're overwhelming," Eva agreed. "I cried through my first. Full panic attack halfway through the reception. Dmitry had to carry me out in front of everyone."