Chapter 37
Aurora
The entire wedding party piles into the limo after us.
Valeria, Sasha, Vitaly, Roman, Mikhail, Irina, and a few more men whose names I should know.
“Champagne!” Sasha fishes bottles from a hidden compartment. “Let’s drink to the happy couple!”
Flutes appear from nowhere, brimming with golden liquid that sloshes over the rims as the limo pulls into the street. My dress will probably stain, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“To Alexei and Aurora.” Roman hoists his flute, dipping his chin at Alexei and me. “May your union bring strength to our family.”
Mikhail shares a toast that I don’t hear.
He drinks.
I drink.
Everyone drinks.
The crisp, expensive liquid bubbles down my throat and settles in my empty stomach like fire. When did I last eat? Yesterday?
The limo winds through rain-slicked streets, leading us deeper into the city, then out again to where massive houses tower behind wrought-iron gates.
Through the downpour, Roman’s compound materializes like a fortress.
Stone walls, security cameras, vigilant guards.
The driveway itself seems a mile long and leads us to an enormous stone mansion.
As we file out, Roman leans toward Alexei and whispers about the reception needing to be inside the grand ballroom for security concerns.
Grand.
Ballroom.
Whose house has a freaking ballroom in the twenty-first century?
The doors at the top of the steps glide open, and we cruise inside as more cars pull in behind us. Heels clack on marble floors. With his hand on my elbow, Alexei steers me down chandelier-lit halls with cherry wood wainscotting to a set of double doors flanked by staff.
Inside the grand ballroom, a whirlwind of crystal and gold and scented white flowers greets me. Tables topped with white linen and silver cutlery ring the dance floor. There’s a dais to one side where musicians are setting up.
An orchestra?
More chandeliers dangle from the thirty-foot ceiling.
This place seems closer to an old noble’s castle or an ultra-luxury hotel than someone’s home.
People crowd around us, kissing my cheeks and shaking Alexei’s hand. They speak to me in English and Russian, and I nod and smile at both with equal incomprehension. Someone keeps handing me plates of food to sample, but all of it tastes like ash.
A tumbler of vodka appears in my hand, replacing the drink I didn’t realize I’d emptied. When I down the ice-cold alcohol, a server immediately shows up with a fresh one. The room begins to glaze at the edges, the noise shifting from an assault on my nerves to a pleasant buzz.
“Time for the first dance,” someone announces, and Alexei shows up, arm extended.
I accept his hand because what else can I do?
His palm is warm against mine as he leads me to the center of the dance floor. A spotlight tracks us, and I squint against the brightness.
Slow, sweet music commences. Alexei’s palm settles around my waist, and he maintains a careful distance between our bodies as we move. He leads with confidence and control, just like he does in all other aspects of his life.
I follow, thankful that my body remembers steps my mind has forgotten.
When the song ends, other couples join us on the floor.
Alexei relinquishes me to Roman for the next dance, who hands me to Mikhail for the one after that, followed by a procession of men whose faces blur together. I spin from partner to partner, passed between them like a mannequin.
Valeria catches my eye and rescues me. “Time for cake!”
Gratefully, I excuse myself and let her lead me to a table where an elaborate confection with white frosting, sugar flowers, and multiple tiers waits. Someone gives me a heavy silver knife. Alexei’s hand covers mine as we cut into the cake together.
A camera flashes.
More applause.
A piece of cake appears on a plate, and Alexei picks up a fork. I open my mouth automatically when he offers me a bite. The sweetness is cloying. I struggle to swallow, washing the dessert down with more champagne that materializes at my elbow.
A stranger passes me another fork. I blink at first, unsure of what to do.
Oh, right, I’m supposed to feed him. I spear a bite of cake and lift the confection to Alexei’s lips.
His gaze slides to mine as he opens his mouth, and for a split second, his eyes flare with warmth, revealing a flicker of the man I thought I knew.
Then the glimpse vanishes, replaced by his remote expression.
The next part of the night passes in a blur.
More drinking.
More dancing.
More faces I won’t remember.
Way too much alcohol.
The reception swirls around me like a fever dream. I find myself at a table, seated beside Irina, who pats my hand and comments on how lovely everything is. I agree, though to be honest, I’ve barely noticed.
After a short eternity, someone announces that it’s time for the newlyweds to leave. I’m suddenly besieged by a flurry of cheek kisses and well wishes.
The alcohol in my system continues to haze my mind, but not enough to erase the truth. I’m a new bride leaving her wedding reception. Mrs. Alexei Kozlov. This isn’t a nightmare I can wake from or a movie I can storm out of because I hate the plot.
This is my life.
Outside, the wet pavement shimmers under the lights. Another limousine waits, this one decorated with white ribbons and trailing cans that clatter against the asphalt. A hand-painted sign proclaims “Just Married” in swirling script.
Someone went to a lot of trouble to inject this farce with an air of celebration and joy.
“Aurora!” Valeria catches me before I escape into the vehicle, her face flushed with excitement and champagne. “I forgot to tell you that we’re all so excited about tomorrow night!”
The words slowly penetrate the fog in my brain. “Tomorrow?”
“Your art show!” She beams, squeezing my hands. “Alexei told us all about it, and I’ve invited a few friends. The whole family will be there. To support you.”
The art show.
In the whirlwind of wedding festivities, I’d all but forgotten. My homemade artwork, my untrained pieces, on display for the world to see. For the Kozlov Bratva to see.
That thought momentarily pierces my alcohol-induced haze. “Oh. Thank you.”
Valeria hugs me, her floral perfume assaulting my senses in the process. “Welcome to the family. You’re one of us now.”
One of us.
The phrase follows me into the limousine, where Alexei sits, stiff in his formal wedding attire.
Light glints off the ring on my finger, drawing my attention.
The massive gem is one of the gaudiest and most ostentatious pieces of jewelry I’ve ever seen.
At least four carats of princess cut diamond set in white gold weigh my hand down, branding me a married woman.
This beautiful anchor signals my induction into their family.
But I’m not part of their glittering throng. These elite criminals. The Russian brotherhood.
I’m a prisoner with fancier chains, white gold and diamond instead of the plastic zip ties we started with.
As the driver closes the door, Roman leans down to speak to Alexei through the open window. “Sorry about the delayed honeymoon. But we have that meeting at eleven tomorrow morning at the Banya Club.”
Honeymoon?
The word reverberates in my head like a bad joke. As if we’d ever go on a honeymoon. As if this marriage were real enough to warrant one.
“It’s fine.” Alexei claps him on the arm. “The meeting takes priority.”
A dull ache flares in my chest.
Of course it does.
Everything takes priority over me and whatever he intends this sham of a marriage to represent. The limo pulls away from the curb, the cans rattling like broken promises.
We ride in silence. The space between us on the leather seat might as well be miles wide. Alexei gazes out the window, his profile sharp against the passing city lights.
I focus on anything but him.
The alcohol gradually wears off, leaving behind a headache, unwanted clarity, and the sensation that I’m floating on water covered in pond scum.
When we reach Alexei’s converted warehouse, he helps me from the car with that same impersonal touch. His hand hovers at my elbow, guiding but not connecting. During the elevator ride, the air vibrates with unsaid words.
The loft is colder than I remember. Or maybe that’s the reality of my situation settling like ice in my veins.
Alexei strides to his bedroom without acknowledging me, shedding his jacket and loosening his tie as he goes.
Just like that first night, when he found me in the alley and brought me home. A high-end killer who doesn’t care about me beyond my usefulness.
I linger in the main living space, still in my wedding gown, dressed up in someone else’s life.
Something breaks inside me, not with a crash but a whimper. I gather the heavy skirts and flee to the guest room.
Pixie greets me with a soft meow and rubs against my ankles. The normalcy of her presence, the reminder of the one thing in this new life that’s truly mine, nearly undoes me.
“Well, Pixie,” I reach behind my back for the zipper, “I guess this is it.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I bite my lip to keep from crying.
The zipper sticks halfway down. I struggle with the tab, growing progressively more panicked with each failure to free myself from the fabric’s smothering weight. From the lies.
“This is my life now. Stuck in a situation I can’t escape from and married to a man who hates me.”
Too much.
This new reality is too much. Too heavy, too tight, too fake. Just like this marriage. Just like—
“I don’t hate you.”
I freeze with the dress half off my shoulders. Alexei idles in the doorway, his shirt unbuttoned, his blue eyes blazing with heat.