Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Semyon
“She won’t wear the dress, Semyon.”
I stand in front of the mirror and straighten my tie. My sister Yana stands in the doorway behind me, her slender frame pushed against one side, her arms crossed. “I tried.” Her tone is sharp, clipped. Not her usual.
I turn to face her. “What the hell is she wearing?”
“A dress,” Yana says coldly, her lips pursed. “Simple. Plain.”
I blow out a breath, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt. “As if I care.” I know my words are dismissive, and I want them to be. What difference does it make what she wears? What matters is the agreement—the structure it cements.
But Yana doesn’t move, doesn’t respond at all. Her silence feels charged and pointed. I catalog her reaction like I do everything and turn to face her.
Why do I care about Anya’s dress?
The only thing she’ll be wearing tonight is my ring.
I look away from Yana when unfamiliar discomfort presses against my chest. Anya—beautiful, headstrong Anya—is going to be my wife and all that entails. She won’t be able to run from me anymore.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, fully facing her. I keep my tone calm, but it’s direct and calculated. If there’s an issue, I’ll address it, fix it, and move on. Like I always do.
Yana’s eyes narrow, and her arms tighten as she lights into me. “My problem, dumbass, is that you’re treating her like she’s one of your stupid fucking chess pieces you can push around your damn chessboard.”
I blink, taken aback. “That’s because she is. Have you been reading those romance books Zoya’s always talking about? Have you forgotten who I am? This marriage is a strategic move, and honestly, I think you, of all people, would understand that. If anything, I’m being kind to her.”
Her jaw tightens. “Do you even hear yourself? She’s not just a move on a board. She’s a human being, Semyon.”
My mind races to dissect her reaction, but the pieces don’t align. Yana doesn’t usually act this way. “I’m ensuring her family’s survival. It isn’t personal.”
“Exactly my point,” Yana says, making a noise of disgust. “Marriage! Not personal? Have you ever considered the fact that maybe it should be?”
What the fuck does she want from me?
I shake my head. “What would you have me do, then?”
Yana stares at me. “You’re serious right now.”
“Deadly.”
“Try to understand her. Try to bring a thread of compassion to the table. Maybe, just maybe, you’re more than Rafail’s cold shadow.
” Her voice lowers and softens, along with the gaze she levels at me.
“I know you are. You were the first person I told when I knew the truth about myself. You were the one who listened when I was confused and scared. You were the one who helped me bridge the gap with Rafail. I know deep down inside you aren’t as cold as everyone says you are.
” She shakes her head. “I know there’s more to you than what everyone thinks. But does she?”
More than… everyone thinks?
I care?
Rafail comes to me next. “What was all that about?”
I make a sound of disgust. “A fun wedding day lecture on compassion and humanity. I told her she was reading too many romance books, and that didn’t go over so well.”
Rafail snorts and gestures. “She’s here. I heard the details about what happened last night. Do you have a plan?”
“For what?”
He reaches out and adjusts my tie, which is strange, considering he never does shit like that, and I wouldn’t have left the room if it wasn’t already perfect.
“For what you’re going to do with her after you marry her.”
I frown at him. “Consummate the marriage, obviously.”
Eventually. I have no interest in an angry fuck.
Or several.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Do you always have to be so literal?”
I blink at him and shrug. “Yes.”
“Case in point.” We walk down the stairs toward the small gathering of our family dressed in formal attire, ready for the wedding, but Yana’s words ring in my mind… Rafail’s cold shadow.
Doesn’t she know I’m marrying Anya because I’m as committed to our family’s stability as he is?
Rafail continues. “I mean… have you given any thought to after the wedding?”
“Yes. I’ll move her into my house. Establish her hours at the bakery with an armed guard with her at all times. Look over her family’s finances and see where the fuck they went wrong and fix that shit. Make it well known she’s mine now.”
Rafail nods. “Interesting.”
I blow out a breath. If people would only state what they actually think, it would be easier. “Why?”
“Because based on what the men said she was like last night, it seems you might have your work cut out for you.”
“How so?”
“She’s defiant as fuck.”
I nod and stifle a grunt. I don’t have time for this shit. “Right. Teaching her her place is a given. Would be boring if she didn’t push back.”
Rafail doesn’t respond at first but finally nods. “Of course you’d say that.”
I told my sisters to keep it simple, and they listened. The living room in The Cottage, the large, sprawling family home we inherited after my parents’ death, looks untouched. It looks like our home, not a venue.
The wedding party is stripped down to essentials: an officiant who stands by the window, the armed guards stationed outside, visible through the wide plate glass.
Rodion’s wife, Ember, holds her camera and gives me a reserved wave when I enter.
The family photographer, she has an eye for detail. I crook a finger at her.
“Yes?” she says in a low voice when she reaches me, trying to keep our conversation private. A hard task in a large, nosy family like ours. She tucks a stray strand of bright-red hair behind her ear and blinks up at me, obviously scared. “What?”
“None of these pictures get leaked until I look at them first. Take many. Show no one.”
Her jaw tightens, and her lips press tight. I catalog that too. The girls aren’t happy with me today.
Maybe they’ll be fucking happy with the stability of our family and the credit limits on their fucking credit cards.
Rafail stands stoic and proud beside his wife, Polina, the Romanova family princess. Her long blonde hair spills down her back, and her light-blue eyes meet mine with cold detachment. When I look back, she averts her gaze.
I see Anya standing in front of me and come to a standstill. She came to me, wrapped in an old coat, her hair in a sloppy bun. She wore no makeup, but her fury made her cheeks blush pink and fire spark in her eyes.
Yana told the truth. Anya wears a simple dress, probably borrowed or handed down, its modest lines doing nothing to hide the soft curves beneath.
My gaze drags over her, noting the way her neckline exposes the delicate line of her collarbone.
Her hair’s loosely tied back, no makeup or jewelry.
I note every detail—the way she lifts her chin in defiance as if expecting a reaction to the way she’s arrived.
Sorry to disappoint you, Anya. I don’t care.
The way she looks over her shoulder at the guards by the doorway. The way she meets my baby sister Zoya’s eyes as if reaching for reassurance.
The way she doesn’t meet mine.
The ceremony is short and sterile. Vows. She finally glares at me, and her tone is venomous, but I ignore her the way I’d ignore a toddler having a tantrum. She can fall to the floor and pound her little fists for all I care.
But the truth is… she’s beautiful when she’s furious and completely unaware of the power she holds in that moment. I clench my jaw, barely suppressing the urge to grab her and show her exactly what it means to defy me.
I slide the ring onto her finger, my thumb brushing over her soft skin. She shivers, and I tell myself it’s because she’s cold, that it has nothing to do with me. Maybe she feels this, too.
Her breath hitches before she can stop herself, a sound so soft I might have imagined it, but for the way her cheeks flush. For a fleeting second, our gazes lock, and the room and its hollow applause fade.
Then she wrenches her hand back.
My heart beats against my ribcage like a warning.
Anya’s my wife.
She’s mine.
Standing before me in a dress.
And she fucking hates me.
Good. She should. If she knew how much I really wanted her, she’d run.
“Congratulations,” she says through gritted teeth as we turn to face the camera, as stiff beside each other as cardboard cutouts.
“For what?”
“For winning the game,” she whispers.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I whisper back. “That’s cute you think the game is over. It’s only just started.”
Her sharp intake of breath tells me I rattled her, but she masks it quickly. She can’t hide the flush that creeps up her neck though.
My gaze sweeps the room for an exit. I said no reception for the two of us. They can party all night long for all I care.
“This way.” I take her hand roughly in mine and tug her along so she trots to keep up with me.
“Where are we going?”
Ember takes pictures, and Rodion watches, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Home, Anya.”
I tug her into the foyer and march with purpose toward the door. Our men open the double doors for us and stand aside amidst formal wishes of congratulations. I nod, barely acknowledging them.
“You don’t have a driver?” she asks when I lead her to the car parked and waiting by the curb. “I thought you’d practically have hired people to wipe your ass.”
I don’t bother to reply and only click the key fob to unlock the door when Rafail calls from behind me.
“Semyon.”
I turn around to face him. He nods at me, his hands tucked into his pockets. “You sure you don’t want to stay and at least have a drink?”
Why would I do that? I have my favorites at my own house.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
“Congratulations,” he finally says. “We’ll be in touch.”
We will.
I’m surprised to hear the click of a car door being opened behind me. When I swivel to face her, Anya’s opening her own fucking door before sliding into the passenger seat with a scowl.
I let it go this time, but she has to know that won’t fly. I lean against the car door, taking up her space and caging her in.
“Don’t ever do that again, Anya,” I say, my voice soft but laced with steel. “Or we’ll have a problem.”