Chapter 10
NIKOLAI
The vodka crawls bitter under my tongue, laughter echoing off the ballroom walls behind me, and somewhere in that sea of noise and cigar smoke and raised glasses, someone just yelled, "Don't break her before sunrise, Nikolai!"
Assholes.
Beside me, Elle flinches.
I lean in. "Ignore them."
One of the old guard walks up to give congratulations. Elle laughs at something he says, but it's forced and a little too bright. It cracks something in my chest to see her trying this hard when we both know she doesn't have to.
Uncle Viktor raises a toast, and the crystal in my hand catches light like it's trying to blind me from seeing what my life has become.
"To Nikolai and his beautiful bride!" Viktor booms, voice carrying over the noise like thunder. "May your union bring strength to our family!"
Family. Right. Like this whole thing wasn't just business dressed up in white lace and bullshit traditions.
Everyone drinks. I drain mine, because I'm not drunk enough to hear what a wonderful couple we are. Have these fuckers forgotten we've known each other a total of two weeks?
Elle sips hers delicately, her throat working with each swallow. When I catch myself noticing, I look away.
Alexei, one of my uncle's more annoying captains, leans in close enough that I can count the pores on his nose. "So, Nikolai. How does it feel to be shackled?" His breath could strip paint.
"Like another Tuesday," I shrug.
He laughs too loud, slapping my shoulder hard enough to rattle bone. I imagine breaking his fingers one by one, just to pass the time.
"At least you got to sample the goods before buying," he says with a wink that makes my stomach turn. "Most of us have to wait until after the wedding."
My jaw tightens. The glass in my hand might shatter. "Watch your mouth."
"What? It's true!" Hands raised in mock surrender, grin still fixed. "You got the preview, and now you're stuck with the full subscription."
I lean in. Voice dropping to a register only he can hear. "Speak about my wife like that again, and I'll carve out your tongue while you're still conscious enough to feel it."
His smile falters.
Good.
At least something's going right tonight.
I glance at Elle, wondering if she heard, but she's staring out at the room with the kind of detached focus people use when they're trying not to drown.
She looks beautiful. Painfully so. But utterly alone. No bridesmaids. No one tugging her in for last-minute hugs or tears or blessings. Not even her ice queen mother bothered to stick around after the ceremony.
Just her, alone in a room of people celebrating me.
That pisses me off more than it should.
Viktor appears at my other side, toasts done. "Your wife looks sad, Nikolai."
"She's not sad. She's overwhelmed."
"Take her for a dance." He says it like he's some kind of marriage therapist and not the reason half this room has body counts. "Women like that sort of thing."
I set my glass down and turn to Elle. Her eyes widen as I extend my hand.
"Dance with me?"
My voice comes out softer than I intend. She nods after a moment of hesitation, swallowing hard. Then she takes my hand with just enough pressure to say she's playing along, and just enough hesitation to let me know she's not sure why.
The room parts for us. Maybe we're royalty. Maybe they just don't want to get too close to a man who kills for peace and a woman who could gut you with a smile.
The music shifts to something slow. Something meant for foreheads to touch and promises to be made.
I hate this song.
I pull her in. One hand warm and low at the curve of her back, the other holding hers, fingers firm but not rough. She smells like trouble in a silk dress. Like gardenia and champagne and that hotel night I haven't managed to delete from my memory.
She's stiff at first. Not afraid. Just coiled. Like a spring or a threat.
"You can breathe," I murmur. "I'm not going to bite."
Her gaze flicks up, green and sharp. "That's not what I remember from our first meeting."
I laugh, and it shocks the hell out of both of us. "Fair enough."
Her posture changes. Her body starts to move with mine instead of bracing against it. She lets the rhythm in. Lets me in, just a fraction.
I guide her around the floor, and it's like we were made for this. Like our bodies know something we haven't signed paperwork for. She moves easily, elegantly, hips brushing mine with each turn. I feel it everywhere. Jaw. Spine. Lower.
We look good together. I can feel it in the way people stare.
"Your family knows how to throw a party," she says.
I glance around. Diamonds. Guns. Too many suits pretending they're not carrying. Wives pretending not to know.
"This isn't a party," I say. "It's a business meeting with cake."
That earns me a real smile. Small. But alive.
Then she says, "Where's your son?"
I blink. The question hits harder than it should. Not because it's offensive. Because she remembered. Because she cared enough to ask. I've spent years in rooms like this. No one ever asks about Pasha.
"With his nanny," I answer quietly. "I don't bring him to things like this."
She exhales. Not loud, but I feel it. Relief, warm and thick between us. "Good," she says. And I believe she means it.
That shouldn't matter. But it does.
We don't speak for the rest of the song. Just move closer. Her hand slides higher on my shoulder. My thumb brushes her knuckles without permission from my brain. Our bodies sway in a rhythm too intimate for strangers, too instinctive for something this staged.
The music ends. I don't let go right away. She doesn't pull away.
Then the applause breaks out, loud and jarring, and the spell snaps.
We're surrounded again. Laughter. Vodka. Human attention acting like flashbulbs.
I step back. Reset my face into something cold and unreadable.
Mikhail stumbles over, sweaty and grinning. "Time for the main event!" he crows.
I resist the urge to headbutt him into the cake.
The room erupts in cheers and lewd comments that turn Elle's face crimson.
"Bed the bride!" someone shouts, and others take up the chant.
I want to put my fist through a wall. This archaic bullshit was supposed to be optional, but nothing's optional when the Bratva's involved. Viktor catches my eye across the room and raises his glass.
Traditions must be followed, I can hear him screaming in his head.
"Enough," I snap at the men closest to me, but they're too far gone on alcohol and tradition to listen.
"Don't be shy, Ivanov! We all know you've already broken her in!"
"Better enjoy it now," Yuri laughs. "First night is sweet. Then marriage will strangle your balls forever."
I say nothing. Just smile like I haven't killed for less.
Someone shoves me forward. "Go. Take her inside. Wedding night tradition."
Elle is crimson beside me, and I know I'd better get her out of here before these animals say something that actually breaks her.
"Come on." I put my hand to the small of her back. "Let's get out of here."
They push harder, half-laughing, half-dangerous, as they move us along. I let them because I've been on that side of the party before, and for the first time in my life, I'm starting to understand how fucked this is.
The walk to the private wing is loud. Slaps on my shoulder, mock cheers, drunken claims that they'll be listening at the door to make sure they hear her scream.
Fucking animals.
I shut the suite door before the noise can swallow her.
And then, quiet. Deadly, haunting silence.
I turn and find her standing in the center of the room, fingers trembling at the diamonds around her wrist. Not fear of me. Fear of the eyes outside. Of failing a performance no woman should ever have to give.
I exhale. "They're assholes. Ignore them."
She gives me the smallest, tightest smile. Brave but close to breaking.
Then, without warning, she turns her back to me.
And unzips her dress.
It falls in one soft rush. A pool of white silk hitting the floor.
Elle stands there like a dream I never asked for but might burn for anyway. Strapless bra, pale and delicate. Her breasts lift gently above the lace. And her panties. White. Not innocent-white. Strategic. Designer. The kind made to destroy whatever composure a man pretended to have.
The only sound in the room is the pounding in my chest.
"Just get it over with," she says quietly. "Before they break down the door."
And that. That right there. That's when everything in me shifts.
No.
I'm not letting her walk into this like it's duty and I'm some chore to be endured.
She's going to feel this. She's going to remember I touched her.
I move toward her. Slow. Letting my hand skim the curve of her waist as I step behind her. Her breath catches.
"Elle." My voice drops into that register that gets me every confession I want. "Look at me."
She hesitates. Then turns, looking up with flushed cheeks and wrecked eyes.
I take her chin between my fingers. Tilt it up.
"I don't want to get it over with," I murmur. "I want to memorize you."
Her eyes widen.
Before she can overthink, before she can run, I bend my head and kiss her. Hard.
I cup her throat with one hand. Not squeezing. Holding. Anchoring. The way a man claims something he isn't planning on returning. Her lips part a second later, instinct, and her body leans into mine like it's been waiting for permission.
She makes a tiny noise, barely there, and it shoots straight to my cock. I deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against hers, dragging a groan from somewhere deep in her chest. My hand slides lower, over the swell of her breast, thumb brushing the top of white lace.
She shivers.
"Beautiful," I say against her mouth. She flinches like no one's ever said it and meant it.
I back her toward the bed. Slow. Deliberate.
Her knees hit the edge and she falls back, catching herself on her elbows, and fuck. Her body in my bed. Soft curves, pale skin, chest rising in quick uneven breaths. Hair wild. Eyes blown wide.