Chapter 40
CHAPTER 40
MARINA
" G rant them a long and peaceful life together," the Russian Orthodox priest announced, his voice ringing through the cavernous church.
The gilded domes above us gleamed under the candlelight, gold and crimson icons of saints watching in silent witness. Incense curled in the air, thick and cloying. Beneath my feet, the polished marble gleamed, reflecting the flickering glow of dozens of chandeliers hanging from vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of heaven.
This place was beautiful. Sacred.
And I was about to set it on fire.
"I said no," I spat, my voice raw with fury.
No one reacted.
No one even flinched.
Why was I not surprised?
Every other protest, every fight, every desperate attempt to stop this had been ignored.
The entire day, I had sworn up and down that this wedding would not happen .
The men had dismissed me outright, their expressions unreadable, their presence an impenetrable united front.
The women had given me nothing but pitying looks, as if I were some child throwing a tantrum instead of a woman fighting for her goddamn life.
I fought every single step of the way.
And it never made a difference.
When I refused to get into the limo, his brother Pavel had simply lifted me off my feet, tossed me over his shoulder, and carried me to the back of the car. He shoved me inside, locked the doors, and when I realized the bastard had engaged the child locks, a scream of rage tore from my throat.
I kicked.
I screamed.
I tried climbing out of the goddamn window, but when we pulled onto the highway, I had no choice but to slump back into the seat, breathing hard, seething.
There was a bottle of champagne chilling, meant for after the wedding.
Fuck that.
Since there wasn’t going to be a wedding, I might as well drink it now.
I was halfway through the bottle when we pulled up in front of the church.
It loomed before me, an imposing structure of red brick and gold domes, the mosaic of Jesus over the grand wooden doors staring down at me with piercing, disapproving eyes.
The man turned water into wine. He could hardly judge me for enjoying the fruits of his labor .
The driver moved to open the door, and I yanked it shut, engaging the lock.
I wasn’t getting out.
I wasn’t getting married.
Pavel tried reaching for me again, but I lashed out, clawing, kicking. My nails scraped his wrist, making him curse in Russian before slamming the door shut.
" Sumasshedshaya zhenshchina ," he muttered under his breath.
Crazy?
If he opened that door again, I’d show him crazy.
I took another long pull from the bottle. The alcohol burned its way through me, settling hot in my stomach, blurring the world at the edges. I hadn’t eaten much in days, and it was hitting me fast.
But for one glorious second, I thought I had won.
I thought someone had listened. That they had finally realized this wasn’t going to happen.
I was so wrong.
The locks clicked open.
I lunged to reengage them, but before I could, Kostya was there. “There’s my blushing bride.”
“Fuck you!”
His hand fisted my arm and yanked me out of the car.
I fought like hell, my nails digging into his wrist, my free hand swinging at his face, but he didn’t even flinch. He barely grunted as he turned me, his arm wrapping around my waist, and in one swift, brutal movement, he threw me over his shoulder.
"Put me down, you son of a bitch!" I screamed, kicked, and fought him every step of the way .
My fists pounded against his back, my nails dug into his skin, my heels struck at his ribs, but it was useless.
He didn’t break stride, walking straight into the grand Russian Orthodox cathedral with all the patience of a man carrying something that already belonged to him.
He didn’t slow.
Didn’t waver.
The massive wooden doors swung open, and I was met with a sea of eyes.
Rows of men in dark suits filled the pews, their wives beside them, draped in jewels and couture, the gleaming candlelight reflecting in their eyes as they watched.
Watched.
And not one of them moved to help me.
I hadn’t expected Pavel or Artem to step in. They were Kostya’s brothers.
But the others?
The men who had married for love and their wives sitting beside them?
Surely Yelena, Nadia, or Samara would say something.
Would do something.
But they only watched with blank expressions, their hands folded neatly in their laps as I fought and screamed.
Kostya carried me down the aisle as if I were some war trophy.
Every part of the ceremony, I tried to ruin it.
I blew out the ceremonial candle.
The priest made a joke and relit it.
I ripped the wedding crown from my head and threw it onto the marble floor .
Kostya only chuckled, shaking his head as he picked it back up, placing it on me once more.
“Be patient, babygirl,” he murmured in my ear, his voice full of promise. “We’ll get to the wedding night soon enough.”
Heat flared in my cheeks, white-hot with rage.
The men in the pews laughed.
As if this was funny.
As if this was some kind of joke.
Then Kostya turned to the priest, amusement curling at his lips.
"A bride who is not pure is so much better," he remarked smoothly. "A virgin would be nervous. But mine is eager."
The laughter deepened.
A rolling sound of smug, arrogant male amusement.
I had never wanted to slap the smile off of someone’s face more in my entire life.
So it should not have been a surprise…when I fucking snapped.
Blinding rage exploded inside me.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t hesitate.
With every ounce of fury I had, I slapped him across the face.
The crack of my palm against his cheek rang through the vast cathedral, silencing the room in an instant.
Disbelief echoed in the pews.
Someone gasped.
Someone murmured in shock.
But all I could hear was the blood roaring in my ears as I glared up at him, my chest heaving, my pulse hammering like a drum.
His head had snapped to the side from the force of it.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned back to face me.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
His eyes darkened.
Then—he smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile that sent ice through my veins.
And in that moment, I knew.
I hadn’t won.
I had only just begun to lose.
Kostya’s grip crushed my hands, his fingers pressing hard enough to make my bones ache as the priest draped his stole over our joined hands, binding us together in yet another solemn, meaningless blessing.
Angry tears burned behind my eyes.
Above me, the gilded angels and saints stared down in judgment, their painted eyes fixed on me, condemning my very presence in this sacred place.
I had never been particularly religious, but in that moment, I felt the weight of their scrutiny.
Were they judging me for refusing to be the quiet, obedient woman the church expected me to be? Was I being condemned for fighting when I was supposed to bow my head and submit?
Or were they judging me for something far worse?
For swearing up and down that I would never let this happen, only to stand here now, trapped in white lace, bound to a man who had been married to my sister?
Hell, maybe these sainted hypocrites were looking down on me for daring to wear white at all, as if purity had ever been something I claimed to have.
Fuck them.
And fuck Kostya too.
I was so lost in my fury, so focused on the painted ceiling above me, that I didn’t even hear the priest’s final words.
Didn’t hear him announce the one thing I swore I would never allow.
"Man and wife."
I only registered what had happened when Kostya’s arm wrapped around my waist, and he pulled me into him.
His lips slammed onto mine, claiming them in a kiss that was meant to solidify his victory.
I refused to kiss him back.
It was the last shred of defiance I had left.
But Kostya? That arrogant bastard?
He took that from me too.
With a firm grip, he swept me back into a dramatic dip, forcing my body against his. The movement caught me off guard, and when I gasped in surprise, he seized the opportunity—his tongue sliding past my lips, invading, dominating, kissing me until I gave into it.
Maybe it was the champagne.
Maybe it was the sheer force of him, the way his mouth swallowed every protest, the way his body knew mine, knew exactly how to pull a response from me even in anger.
Even through my hate, my body betrayed me.
My heart pounded .
My head swam.
And when he finally righted me, when he lifted me into his arms and carried me back up the aisle like a conquering king, the room erupted into applause.
The guests stood, clapping as if this was any other wedding, as if I had walked willingly down this aisle, as if I had chosen this life.
Kostya grinned ear to ear, his expression one of sheer triumph.
I hated him for it.
I hated that he looked happy.
That he looked…right.
I had seen him at the altar once before. I had watched him stand in this same sacred space with my sister at his side, and I had thought I understood him.
Back then, his smile had been tight, forced. I had assumed it was the crowds, the ceremony itself, the weight of it all pressing down on him.
I had been wrong.
It wasn’t the crowd.
It was Veronika.
Because he hadn’t chosen her.
But he had chosen me.
And if he had given me a choice, if he had asked instead of taken, maybe I could have shared in that excitement, in that revelry.
Instead, I lay in his arms, silent, seething, my fingers curled into the lace and silk of my dress as he carried me down the steps of the church toward the waiting limo.
He pressed his face into my neck, his breath warm as he murmured against my skin .
"We are going to live a long and happy life together, moy zaichonok ."
I said nothing.
He could believe whatever he wanted.
It wasn’t going to stop me from planning my escape.