4. Chapter 4
4
Konstantin
T he taste of her taco lingers on my tongue—salt, spice, and a hint of lime. Not what I expected to sample on my wedding day, but there’s a certain poetry to it. I savor it like a promise. Like a claim.
The heavy doors swing open. Every head turns. Every guest holds their breath.
And there she is.
Isabella Marquez.
She walks forward, her movements careful, controlled—like a woman carrying the weight of a choice she already regrets. The dress is an intricate cage of satin and lace designed to make her look soft, delicate. A trick. Because there’s nothing delicate about this woman.
Her face is hidden beneath the veil, but I don’t need to see her to know exactly what she’s thinking. It’s in the way her grip tightens around the bouquet. In the way her shoulders are pulled back, rigid with defiance. She’s barely holding it together, and that pleases me more than it should.
Three hundred people in this room, and not one of them matters. Not the politicians pretending not to fear me. Not the old money socialites sipping champagne like this is just another high-profile merger.
This isn’t a wedding. This is a contract. A war won before the first shot was fired.
My mother stands at the front row, Alya beside her. My sons flank them, uncomfortable in their suits but impeccably behaved. They’ve been taught well. My daughter catches my eye and gives an almost imperceptible nod. Her mission—successful. The bride delivered, somewhat intact.
Isabella moves toward me with each step measured by the music. I note the unfamiliar shoes, the slightly uneven gait. The small, almost invisible hitch in her step that betrays discomfort. Pain, perhaps. I make a mental note to have words with Natasha about that.
No one hurts what’s mine. Not even in the process of preparing her for me.
She reaches the altar, stopping just a breath away from me. Close enough to feel her heat, close enough to hear the sharp inhale she takes as she looks up—finally looks at me.
The priest speaks. I barely hear him. My focus is on her.
Her breathing is shallow. Her fingers tighten around the flowers. She’s trying to keep from running, weighing her options. Smart. But too late.
I don’t move, don’t let my expression change.
I want her to wonder what I’m thinking. I want her to feel that uncertainty crawling up her spine, the realization settling in that no matter how much she wants to fight this, she’s already lost.
Her eyes dart to mine, just a flicker beneath the veil, but I catch it. The conflict, the resentment. The heat.
I smirk.
The priest begins. “Do you, Isabella Marquez, take Konstantin Belov to be your lawfully wedded husband…?”
Her fingers tighten around the bouquet. I can see her jaw clench through the sheer fabric of the veil.
Her throat moves as she swallows, her pulse hammering beneath the fragile skin there. A silent war rages inside her. I know the exact moment she realizes she’s going to say yes.
Defeat settles in her expression, but only for a second before she masks it with something else—anger.
Good. Let her fight it. Let her fight me.
I step closer, slow enough that she doesn’t realize she’s already backed herself into a corner. I lean in just enough for my breath to brush against the shell of her ear.
“ Say yes,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. “Or this will end… badly.”
She stiffens. A sharp inhale, the slight tremor of her fingers tightening around the bouquet. She’s considering her choices, but we both know there’s only one answer.
Her throat works as she swallows, and when she finally speaks, her voice cracks.
“I… do.”
There it is. The moment she seals her fate.
The priest beams like he hasn’t just officiated a contract that holds more weight than any legal document.
“You may kiss the bride.”
I don’t move right away. I let the moment stretch, let her feel the weight of her decision pressing down on her.
Then, I reach for the veil, slow and deliberate, like peeling back the last barrier between us.
Her lips are parted slightly, her breath uneven. Her pupils are blown wide—not just panic, but something else.
Anticipation.
Interesting.
I lean in, just close enough for her to feel the heat of my breath, close enough to watch her throat work as she swallows. She’s waiting for it.
But before I can claim my prize, a small, clear voice cuts through the priest’s well-rehearsed monotone.
“Wait!”
Every head in the room swivels. Isabella startles, blinking rapidly, and I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
Alya.
My daughter marches down the aisle, a tiny storm in a white dress, her pigtails bouncing with each determined step.
The murmur of guests ripples through the room, uncertain whether to be amused or horrified.
She stops at the altar and holds up a small velvet box like she’s presenting the crown jewels.
“You forgot this,” she says, her tone flat with just enough exasperation to make a few people chuckle under their breath.
The priest adjusts his glasses, clearly flustered. “Ah, yes. The ring…”
Alya doesn’t wait. The box snaps open with an almost dramatic flair, and inside rests a diamond wedding band.
She doesn’t hand it to me right away. No, she stares me down first, issuing a silent warning.
“Don’t drop it,” she says.
I hold her gaze for a beat, letting her think she’s won this round, before I take the ring from her hand.
“Thank you, Alya.”
She smirks—an expression much like my own—before looking at Isabella. Her eyes scan her, calculating, assessing, before she leans in slightly and mutters low enough for only Isabella to hear:
“Good luck.”
With that, she turns on her heel and heads back down the aisle. Her job is done.
I shake my head slightly before turning back to the woman standing before me.
She looks rattled.
Good.
I lift her hand, sliding the ring onto her finger, and her throat works as she swallows. She’s not stupid. She knows this isn’t a wedding band—it’s a collar, a lock, a binding.
And she just handed me the key.
Her fingers twitch slightly in mine, testing my grip. I tighten it just enough to remind her.
It’s done.
Isabella Marquez is mine.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t protest.
Smart girl.
“There,” I say, my voice final.
The priest straightens, finding his place again.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And this time, when he says, “You may kiss the bride,” I don’t hesitate.
I lean in, taking my time. Let her sweat. Let her feel it coming.
Her breath catches as I brush my lips against hers, firm but unhurried. This isn’t a kiss—it’s a lesson. A warning. A claim.
She doesn’t pull away.
No, she stays perfectly still, caught in that space between resistance and surrender.
Her mouth is soft and parted just enough for temptation to slip through. I can feel the heat of her skin, the faint tremble in her breath. Every nerve in me sharpens with the contact. Blood surges low, pooling with brutal urgency. My balls tighten, and I bite down the urge to deepen it—to show her, here and now, what happens when she tempts me.
It takes effort. Real effort.
I could drag her closer. Open her mouth with mine. Let my hand slide down and press her flush against me so she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I could fuck her with this kiss until she forgets her name.
But not here.
Not yet.
By the time I pull back, her pupils are still blown wide, her breath uneven.
I linger just long enough to watch her try to pull herself together. The flush on her cheeks. The slightly dazed look in her eyes before she masters herself again. I memorize all of it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the priest announces, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Konstantin Belov.”
The crowd applauds with perfect politeness. The quartet begins playing again. My hand finds the small of her back, guiding her down the aisle.
“Don’t even think about running,” I murmur against her ear, my voice low. “Next time, I won’t be so gentle when I retrieve you.”