Chapter 3 #2
There’s no warmth there. No kindness. No hint that this man will ever see me as anything other than the enemy.
Just pure, cold loathing.
I realize I’m trembling.
“By the power vested in me by the state,” the judge says, clearly eager to get this over with, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Oh.
Oh God.
I hadn’t thought about this part. Part of me wants to scream that this is disgusting, because how can I kiss him when the brother I really want to kiss is buried?
But now it’s happening, and Dimitri is turning to face me fully, and I can’t run or escape.
He steps closer. So close I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
So close I can see some silver in his dark hair, the scar on his jawline, the absolute absence of anything resembling affection in his expression.
Then his hand comes up, fingers not gently tilting my chin. He grips it firmly enough that I can’t pull away.
And he kisses me.
It’s not the kind of kiss you give your bride on your wedding day, or even a kiss that Alexei once gave me.
It’s hard and brutal.
His lips press against mine with enough force to bruise, and the message is crystal clear.
You’re mine now. My property. My prisoner.
He pulls back after only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. His hand releases my chin, and he leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear.
“Welcome to hell, Mrs. Volkov,” he whispers, so quietly that only I can hear and my stomach bottoms out, sweat trailing down my back.
Then he steps back, and the judge is declaring us married, and it’s done.
I’m Mrs. Volkov now.
Dimitri Volkov’s wife.
And I’ve never felt more terrified in my entire life.
The reception is pathetic.
There’s no other word for it. It’s being held in a conference room in the courthouse they’ve hastily decorated with white tablecloths and flower arrangements that do nothing to hide the institutional feel of the space.
Both families cluster in separate corners, as far from each other as possible while still technically being at the same event.
The Volkovs on one side with their dark suits and darker expressions.
The Ashfords on the other, my mother still crying quietly and my father looking ten years older than he did this morning.
It’s awkward as hell. No one’s eating the catered food. No one’s pretending to celebrate. Everyone just stands there, tense and waiting, like they expect gunfire to break out at any moment.
Konstantin Volkov—Dimitri’s uncle, the silver-haired man I recognize from the funeral—stands up to give a toast. His champagne glass catches the light as he raises it.
“To new beginnings,” he says, his voice smooth and practiced. “May this union bring peace and prosperity to both our families.”
The words sound nice and diplomatic, like this is a normal wedding toast.
But the way he says it—the slight edge to his voice, the cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—makes it feel like a threat.
He’s reminding everyone what happens if the peace breaks.
He’s saying, We have your daughter now. Behave.
A few people raise their glasses halfheartedly. Most don’t bother.
Dimitri doesn’t even acknowledge the toast. Hell, he doesn’t acknowledge me at all. He stands across the room talking to his men, his back to me, like I don’t exist. Like he didn’t just marry me twenty minutes ago.
I sit alone at the head table, a plate of untouched food in front of me, wearing my beautiful white dress that now feels like a costume.
It feels like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. I feel like an exhibit, like something on display. The hostage bride. The peace offering. The sacrifice.
My mother tries to come over to me twice, but my father stops her both times, shaking his head. It’s too dangerous, there’s too much tension. It’s better to keep the families separated.
So I sit here alone, and I wait, and I try not to think about what comes next.
After an hour that feels like ten, Dimitri finally crosses the room to me. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those cold gray eyes and jerks his head toward the door.
Time to go.
I stand on shaking legs and look across the room at my family one last time. My mother is crying again. My sisters look confused and scared. My father still won’t meet my eyes.
Then Dimitri’s hand lands on the small of my back—heavy, possessive, steering me toward the exit—and I’m leaving. Leaving my family. Leaving my old life. Leaving everything I’ve ever known.
The drive to Dimitri’s estate is suffocating.
We sit in complete silence in the back of his SUV, a driver I don’t know behind the wheel, two of Dimitri’s men in the front passenger seat.
I’m pressed as close to my door as possible, trying to maintain some distance between us, but the back seat isn’t that big and I can feel the heat of him beside me.
He stares out his window, jaw clenched, and radiating tension. His hands are curled into fists on his thighs, and I remember what the character profile said—those large, calloused hands that can kill.
I swallow heavily and try to think of something to say, anything to break this horrible silence. But what is there to say? Nice weather we’re having? Thanks for marrying me? Sorry my family killed your brother?
The last thought makes my throat tighten. I open my mouth before I can stop myself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “About Alexei. I’m so sorry for your loss. I know that doesn’t—”
“Don’t.”
His voice is so cold and sharp that I actually recoil.
He turns to look at me for the first time since we got in the car, and the rage in his eyes makes my blood freeze.
“Don’t you dare say his name,” he snarls. “Don’t speak about him or apologize for what your family did. Don’t pretend you give a damn. You will never—” He stops himself, jaw working like he’s physically restraining the words. “You will never mention my brother’s name again. Do you understand?”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” I manage, my heart pounding. “I understand.”
He turns back to the window, and we don’t speak again for the rest of the drive.
The silence is awful. Oppressive. It presses down on me until I can barely breathe, and all I can think is, This is my life now. This is what forever looks like.
When we finally arrive, I understand why they call it an estate and not just a house.
It’s massive. A fortress-like mansion on isolated grounds surrounded by high walls and iron gates that close behind us with an ominous clang.
The building itself is beautiful in a cold, imposing way.
It’s more castle than a home.
Security cameras are everywhere, mounted at regular intervals along the walls and roofline.
Guards patrol the grounds, their figures dark against the manicured lawns.
It’s not a home. It’s a prison.
And I’m the prisoner.
The SUV stops at the front entrance, and Dimitri gets out without a word. He doesn’t open my door or offer me his hand. He just waits while I struggle with the heavy door and my voluminous dress, nearly tripping on the steps.
The front door opens, and an older woman appears. She’s in her sixties with iron-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her expression is cold and unwelcoming and she looks at me like I’m something unpleasant she’s been forced to deal with.
“Your room is upstairs,” Dimitri says flatly, not looking at me. “Mrs. Kozlov will show you. Third door on the right. Stay out of my way.”
He starts to walk away, heading deeper into the house, and panic floods through me.
“Wait—”
He stops, but doesn’t turn around.
I don’t know what makes me say it. Desperation, maybe. Or some naive hope that there’s a way out of what I know is coming. But the words tumble out before I can stop them.
“Are we—” I gesture helplessly between us, my face burning with embarrassment. “I mean, we just got married, so aren’t we supposed to—”
I can’t finish the sentence. Just fucking end me right here and now.
Dimitri turns around slowly and there’s something dark in his eyes that makes my stomach drop.
“Oh, we’re going to consummate this marriage, Mrs. Volkov,” he says quietly. Each word is precise and deliberate. “I need it to be official and binding. But don’t mistake it for anything more.”
The way he says it—so cold, so clinical—makes me feel sick.
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the depths of the house.
Mrs. Kozlov is still standing by the door, watching me with those unfeeling, judgmental eyes. “Come,” she says curtly. “I show you to your room.”
My legs are shaking as I follow her up the stairs and it takes everything in me to not fall flat on my face.
I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life.
Hours pass.
I sit in the massive bedroom (my bedroom now, I suppose) still wearing my wedding dress because I can’t bring myself to take it off. I can’t do anything but sit on the edge of this enormous bed and wait.
Wait for what I know is coming.
The room is beautiful in an impersonal way. Expensive furniture, silk curtains, a bed that could fit four people.
Everything is done in shades of cream and gold, tasteful and elegant and completely devoid of warmth.
It looks like a hotel room, not a place where someone actually lives.
There’s no trace of personality here. No photographs, no personal items, nothing that would tell me who this room belonged to before me. If anyone.
I’m not naive. I understand what consummating a marriage means. I’ve been with Alexei, obviously, since I’m pregnant.
We made love dozens of times over the eight months we were together and they were sweet, gentle encounters where he made me feel cherished and wanted.
This won’t be like that.
The thought of Dimitri touching me, of being intimate with a man who looks at me with such hatred, makes my stomach twist with dread. And yet...
There’s something else beneath the fear.
During the ceremony, when we were standing so close, I couldn’t help but notice things.
The dark cologne that somehow fit him perfectly.
The heat radiating off his body.