Chapter 36
Aurora
I’m watching someone else’s wedding through foggy glass. The bride resembles me, but I don’t recognize her. Her hair is too perfect, her makeup too flawless. The white dress she wears is new, a compromise between the puffy gown Irina selected and the sleek style I never had a chance to view.
The sleeveless, strapless gown hugs my body all the way down to my knees before flaring out in a tulle explosion. The crystal and lace-laden princess-like effect seems out of place for a woman who pieces together broken things.
I shake my head, attempting to yank my mind free of the haze. This can’t be my wedding. My wedding would include wildflowers and fairy lights, not crystal chandeliers and armed guards at every door.
This is Alexei and Roman’s wedding. A Bratva extravaganza in which I simply play a starring role. Just yesterday, I sat and drank coffee with my sister, chatting and laughing as if today would never happen. As if I weren’t about to walk down the aisle without my only family in attendance.
My heart twists. I wish she were here.
“Hold still.” Irina fastens another pearl-tipped pin into my updo. Her fingers move with practiced efficiency, like she’s done this a thousand times. “You’re a beautiful bride.”
“Thank you.” The words are automatic as I stare at my reflection.
I resemble an expensive doll someone dressed up for a tea party. The gown alone probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. My grandma’s cross necklace is the only proof that the pale, wide-eyed woman in the mirror is me.
“Five minutes.” A man’s voice drifts through the closed door. One of Alexei’s people.
They’re everywhere today. Watching. Waiting. For what? A runaway bride? An attack? Both seem equally likely at this juncture.
Irina leans down, her feathery soft hair curtaining my face as she kisses my forehead. “I need to claim my seat in the front row.” She fusses with my dress one last time before gliding out the door.
Valeria materializes wearing a warm smile and a stunning ice blue dress. “Are you ready?”
I stifle an incredulous scoff. I’ve spent a whopping handful of hours with Alexei’s half-sister, yet she’s my maid of honor. My only attendant. The absurdity of the situation urges me to laugh, but if I start, I may never stop. “Yes.”
Is there still time to run?
The church is small but ornate, all gothic stonework, icons, and incense.
Russian Orthodox, they told me. Not my faith.
Not that I have much of one anymore. I hover in the dark wood paneled vestibule between two sets of double doors.
One leads to freedom. The other leads to a room filled with criminals and killers…
one of whom wants nothing to do with me.
If I could feel anything today, my heart might crack, but only numbness seeps through my body as Roman takes my arm.
The Pakhan is standing in for the father who abandoned me before I was old enough to hate him properly.
Roman pats my hand, his features softening as he gifts me a rare, genuine smile. “You look radiant.”
I murmur what I hope is an appreciative response, my brain drifting as the music starts.
I take one step forward, then another. My body functions on autopilot while my detached mind floats.
The chapel is even more crowded with iconography.
Statues of saints occupy carved, gold-encrusted alcoves.
Even dark wooden pews are covered in etchings and scarlet cushions with gold trim.
The guests angle toward us to watch our procession. So many unfamiliar faces. Men with hard eyes and expensive suits. Women with tight smiles and designer dresses. Bratva royalty, all of them.
Since none of the attendants are here for me, the groom’s family lines both sides of the aisle.
Irina and Mikhail, the parents of the groom, are in the front row. Irina dabs at her eyes. Mikhail stares down his long patrician nose with an unreadable expression in his dark eyes.
Alexie waits at the end of the aisle.
My mouth goes dry.
Straight-backed, stoic-faced, with his hands clasped before him, my gorgeous husband-to-be could feature on the cover of a fashion magazine.
He wears a perfectly tailored tux with silk gray lapels that match the gray vest underneath.
The stripe down the outside seam of the pants is crafted from the same cloth. There’s even a gray silk pocket square.
My monochrome man.
No, not mine. Alexei’s made it perfectly clear that our marriage is a business transaction. The only way to appease Roman and keep me alive.
When his blue eyes meet mine, they’re empty.
No recognition.
No hint of the man who brought me to life when he touched me, bought me art supplies, and rescued my cat.
All traces of that man have disappeared.
I continue shuffling forward, placing one foot in front of the other. A prisoner approaching her sentence.
Roman halts, grasps my hand, and places it in Alexei’s. “Treat her well.”
“Of course, Pakhan.” No warmth to be found in his voice.
All my remaining hope crumbles.
This isn’t a wedding. It’s the transfer of a prisoner from one man to another.
For life.
My bouquet suddenly weighs too much.
Valeria gently extracts the expensive floral arrangement from my hands. Alexei tugs me down to kneel with him, signaling the priest to start his prayer.
The ceremony is long and complicated, with lots of standing and kneeling, prayers and chanted hymns. Alexei pulls me along for the entire process. I catch maybe every third word. Something about sacred unions and bonds that cannot be broken.
Alexei issues flat, automatic responses. A robot would probably sound more alive.
“Alexei and Aurora, have you come here of your own free will and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?”
My pulse races. “I’m sorry…what?”
When the priest repeats himself, all I can do is parrot Alexei’s vows back, my voice distant even to my own ears.
Next, we stand while the priest reads scripture.
I should probably pay attention, but I zone out as his voice drones on in the background.
I snap back into my surroundings when he places a silver crown on my head and repeats the process with Alexei.
When he talks about unity and establishing a new family while attaching the crowns together with a ribbon, I realize this must be a Russian Orthodox custom.
For a moment there, I thought the crowns had something to do with the bratva.
“The rings,” the priest says, and an eager young boy rushes forward. He holds out a velvet cushion bearing two shiny bands.
The exchange is a blur. Alexei’s skin is as icy as his demeanor as he slides the white gold ring onto my finger. I fumble with his, nearly dropping the large band. Someone in the crowd laughs.
Not Alexei. He waits, patient and still, until I manage to complete the task.
With our rings safely on, the priest removes the crowns. “On behalf of God and his Church, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Alexei leans in, his lips brushing mine in the barest approximation of a kiss. Cold. Impersonal. A business transaction sealed.
My buzzing ears mute the applause that follows.
We turn to face the congregation.
My husband and I.
Husband. The foreign word plays on repeat in my head. I’m Aurora Kozlov now.
Hysteria rears its head again, and I barely manage to hold back a flood of wild laughter.
We walk back down the aisle together, his hand guiding my elbow. Controlling.
In the antechamber, chaos erupts. People swoop in to kiss cheeks, slap backs, and congratulate us in Russian and English. I smile until my face hurts, saying “thank you” until the words lose meaning.
Through everything, Alexei remains at my side like an immovable statue even though he never once looks my way.
“You were wonderful.” Irina squeezes my hands. “I know this isn’t the wedding you dreamed of, but we had to do it quickly and quietly.” Her eyes are earnest, her smile genuine. “Don’t worry. We’ll give you a proper celebration later. Something magnificent, when things are…safer.”
A do-over wedding.
As if that’s the problem. As if more flowers and a different dress would render this marriage any less of a prison sentence.
A knot of emotion lodges in my throat, but the tears refuse to come. Maybe they’re locked behind the same glass that separates me from this surreal spectacle.
Raindrops pelt us as we exit the church, spattering the stone steps like tiny explosions.
At least Mother Nature will cry for me.
A massive black umbrella appears, shielding us as we descend the stairs.
The rain blurs and softens the world. A perfect match for the fog in my head. Water drips from the umbrella’s edge, creating an imaginary boundary around us that severs us from everything else.
A sleek black limousine idles at the curb, the tinted windows reflecting the rain like oil. The driver holds the door open, and Alexei ushers me inside with that same impersonal touch at my elbow.
I expect a little time alone with my new husband and a chance to ask what happens next.
But I’m not even allowed a few minutes to breathe before we’re bombarded with people.