Chapter 4 - Tikhon
The cathedral reeks of old money and older power—stone arches soar overhead, stained glass spills red and gold across the pews, and incense is thick enough to choke you. Every seat’s packed with people who run things in our world, and plenty more who want you to think they do.
Sokolovs on one side, Letvins on the other.
The aisle’s just wide enough for polite fiction.
It feels like any second someone might decide politeness isn’t worth it.
My brothers take the front row. Alexey looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Andrei’s got that hunting-dog gaze, watching every face, waiting for a move.
Arina sits next to Ilariy, her hand locked in his. She gives me this tiny, worried smile when our eyes meet. She knows how I wound up here. She doesn’t like it, but she won’t stop me.
Katya steps down the aisle on Agafon’s arm.
She’s in white—simple, beautiful, nothing flashy. The dress fits her in all the right places, then falls loosely around her legs like she’s got a getaway planned. Her hair’s pinned up, a few curls slipping loose around her face, and she’s staring straight ahead.
Not at me. Never at me.
She looks like a bride halfway out the door.
Agafon hands her off with a sharp nod. She stands beside me, silent. Her hand trembles in mine, but her chin’s up. I feel every look in the place—measured, waiting for someone to crack first.
The priest drones on in Latin, then English. I barely catch any of it. All I hear is Katya’s breath, quick and shaky. She rattles off her vows like she’s reading a recipe. I say mine slowly, letting every word land. Her fingers dig into my hand when I promise to honor and protect her.
No clue if that’s anger or fear or both. I don’t ask.
We slip on the rings. Hers is thin platinum, a single emerald—green like my eyes, because I thought that’d be romantic.
She stares at it like it’s a shackle.
The priest says I can kiss the bride. The whole room freezes.
I lean in. She doesn’t pull away, but she’s stone. I barely brush my lips over hers—gentle, careful, almost nothing. Her mouth is warm and unyielding. She tastes of mint and resentment. I pull back before she can push me.
The organ blares.
Applause.
We walk out together, her hand resting on my arm because that’s what’s expected. She doesn’t glance my way, not once.
The reception’s at the Sokolov estate—big white tent on the lawn, heaters fighting off the fall chill, waiters weaving through with champagne and caviar. Linen-draped tables, white roses, eucalyptus.
My family and hers mix like oil and water, sticking to small talk: weather, sports, college acceptances. No one dares mention territory or blood.
Katya ghosts out as soon as she can. I find her at the garden’s edge, arms wrapped tight around herself, staring down at the fountain like it owes her money. The dress catches the string lights just so.
She’s gorgeous.
She almost doesn’t seem real.
I walk up behind her. “You alright?”
She doesn’t turn. “Don’t pretend you give a damn.”
“I do.”
A sharp, humorless laugh. “That’s why you blackmailed me into this?”
I move a little closer. “I never wanted this to go this way.”
“So why did it?”
Because the thought of losing you made me crazy.
Because you smiled at me across that counter, and something inside me cracked.
Because I’m selfish, and I always get what I want, and I wanted you more than anything.
But I keep all that to myself.
I just say, “Dance with me.”
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are red, but she’s not crying. “No.”
“One dance. People expect it. Then you can go back to ignoring me.”
She studies me, weighing her options, then sighs. Like maybe giving in is just easier. “Fine. One dance.”
We head back under the tent. The band’s playing something slow and sad—strings and piano. I lead her out. People make way, all eyes on us. I put my hand on her back and take her hand in mine. She holds herself stiff, keeping her distance.
I pull her closer. Not rough—just enough so she can't ignore me. She tenses up, then eases a little when I don't push my luck.
“You look beautiful,” I whisper against her ear.
“Don't,” she says.
“I mean it.”
She stays quiet. Her hand lands lightly on my shoulder. We move in these tight, slow circles. I can feel her heart pounding through her dress. Fast. Same as mine.
“You're shaking,” I say.
“I'm cold.”
“You're not cold.”
She blows out a breath. “I hate you.”
“I know.”
We keep moving. Her fingers dig into my jacket, like she's steadying herself.
“I miss the shop,” she says, so soft I almost miss it. “I miss just being Katya. Not Katya Sokolov.”
The name lands sharply. I hold her tighter. “You're still Katya.”
“I'm your wife now. That changes everything.”
“Not everything.”
She looks up, searching my face. “What do you really want from me, Tikhon?”
Everything. Your mornings. Your bad moods. The way you laugh when something catches you off guard. The look you give frosting, as if it’s personally offended you. I want you to look at me the way you did before you knew my last name.
I swallow. “I want you to give this a chance.”
She laughs, short and bitter. “A chance at what? Playing the trophy wife? Being your peace treaty with perks?”
“No.” My thumb traces slow circles on her back. “I want you to be happy. With me. Sooner or later.” I sense her tense under my touch, and almost smile.
Her eyes narrow. “You think threats are a good start?”
“I panicked.” The words growl. “I saw a way to keep you, and I grabbed it. Didn't think past that.”
She studies my face. “You’re telling me the great Tikhon Sokolov didn’t plan every angle?”
“I'm telling you nothing ever mattered this much. Logic didn't stand a chance.”
Something shifts in her face—surprise, maybe. Or doubt. She looks away.
The music stops. People clap politely. We don’t let go right away.
“Come inside,” I say. “There’s cake.”
She snorts. “Of course there is.”
We stroll to the head table. The cake is ridiculous—four layers, white fondant, sugar roses so perfect they could be real. I cut the first slice with her hand over mine.
Protocol again.
She doesn’t pull away.
I feed her a bite. She eats it slowly, eyes locked on mine. Her tongue flicks my thumb as she takes the fork.
No accident. She’s daring me.
Heat flashes through me.
I lean in, voice low. “Careful.”
“Or what?” she whispers. “You’ll threaten my shop again?”
“No.” I brush a crumb from her lip with my thumb. “I'll kiss you in front of everyone.”
She catches her breath.
I don’t do it. Not yet.
God knows I want to. The sampling of her lips on mine from a couple of weeks ago in her shop, before she knew my true identity, and when we stood at the altar a few hours ago, is straining my composure.
We sit. People come over to offer congratulations. Agafon pumps my hand like we’re old friends. Ilariy shoots me a look that says, hurt her, and I’ll break you. Tatiana hugs Katya too long, then whispers something that makes her blink fast.
Later, when the music picks up and the crowd thins, I find her by the dessert table, staring at a plate of macarons like they might have answers.
I come up behind her. “Still mad?”
“Always.”
I rest my chin on her shoulder. She doesn’t move, except for her back straightening, rigid as a tire iron.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask.
She turns her head just enough that our cheeks touch. “Where?”
“Anywhere but here. Anywhere people aren’t watching.”
She waits a beat. Then, “Fine.”
We slip out a side door, cross the lawn to the guest house tucked out back. It's quiet. The lights are low. I open the door and let her walk in first.
She steps inside, glances around at the bland furniture, and the fire is already going. She hugs herself again.
I close the door behind us. Lock it.
She turns. “This doesn't mean anything.”
“I know.”
She watches me. “You're not going to push.”
“Not tonight.”
Her shoulders sink just a little. “Good.”
I shrug off my jacket and toss it over a chair. Roll up my sleeves. She watches every move.
“Come here,” I say.
She hesitates, then closes the space between us. Close enough for me to smell her perfume—something flowery and sweet, still laced with sugar from the cake.
I reach up and tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Let my fingers rest on her neck. I feel her pulse jump under my thumb.
“You can hate me tomorrow,” I tell her. “Tonight, just... be here.”
She closes her eyes. “I don't know how to do that.”
“Let me show you.”
I don't kiss her. Not yet. I just stand there with my hand on her neck, thumb stroking slowly. She leans into it, barely. But I notice.
After a minute, she opens her eyes. “I still hate you.”
“I know.”
“But I don't hate this.” She gestures between us. “Not completely.”
“That's enough for tonight.”
She nods.
We don't talk for a long while. Just stand there in the quiet, breathing together, the fire crackling behind us.
I don't push.
But I don't let go, either.
***
The guest suite is so quiet I can hear nothing but the soft rise and fall of her breath. I’m still standing just inside the door, hand on the knob. I closed it what—ten minutes ago? My other hand’s balled up tight at my side. I haven’t moved. Haven’t dared to.
Moonlight spills through the gap in the curtains in thin, silver ribbons. It cuts across the bed, pooling on the white sheets—like someone spilled a bowl of milk. It catches in her hair, too.
Her light brown curls are fanned out across the pillow, and where the light hits, they shine gold. Her face is turned a little toward the window, lips parted, lashes resting dark against her cheek. She looks peaceful. Unreachable.
One arm is tucked under her head, the other stretched out, palm open, fingers loose. The pale blue, almost see-through nightgown she’s wearing has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the soft line of her collarbone and a hint of her breast.
The fabric clings here and there, tracing her waist, the curve of her hip, the long line of her leg where the sheet’s bunched up around her thigh.
She’s beautiful.
Not in that polished, deliberate way women at galas are—those women with their sharp makeup, dresses designed to catch every eye. Katya’s beautiful the way a sunrise is: quiet, unplanned, just... there.
She doesn’t even know it.
The moonlight seems to love her, sliding over her skin as if blessing her. Every curve, every shadow, those freckles scattered across her nose and shoulders—it all feels impossibly perfect, as if the world arranged this scene for me and me alone. And God, it hurts.
I’ve seen her angry. I’ve seen her stubborn, throwing words like knives.
I’ve watched her laugh, flour smeared on her cheek, eyes shining when she catches me stealing frosting.
But this—her asleep, unguarded, trusting the world enough to let go—this undoes me. It gets right under my ribs and twists.
I used to think I understood obsession. Thought it was the way I watched her at the shop, the way I plotted to take her, the way I couldn’t stop thinking about her, even when I tried to stay away. Turns out, I was wrong.
This is an obsession.
It’s standing in the dark, barely daring to breathe, afraid that even a whisper will shatter something perfect and fragile. It’s knowing I blackmailed her into this marriage—and still feeling like the luckiest bastard alive, just because she’s here.
In my bed. Breathing the same air I am. It’s realizing, suddenly and completely, that I would burn the whole city down before I let anything hurt her again.
I step closer. Slow, silent. Now I’m right by the bed. The moon paints her skin in silver and shadow, making her look almost unreal. She doesn’t move.
I sit down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle her. The sheet slips a little lower. Her breast rises and falls with every breath, the silk shifting when she moves. I can’t look away.
The curve of her throat. The way her lashes flutter—once, twice—like she’s dreaming. I wonder what her dreams are about. I hope they’re not about me. I hope they are.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. My voice is barely there.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For how this started. For the threats. For trapping you. I was scared—scared you’d leave before I could show you who I really am. Scared I’d lose you before I even had you.”
She keeps sleeping. Peaceful. Unaware.
I swallow hard.
“I swear it now—in the dark, with just the moon listening. I’ll keep you safe.
Always. Whatever it costs. I’ll love you forever—quietly, if that’s what you want, loudly, if you ever let me.
I’ll wait as long as it takes. I won’t push.
Won’t demand. Won’t take what you don’t give freely.
You come to me when you’re ready—or you don’t. That’s my promise.”
My throat is so tight it almost hurts.
“And I pray—God, I pray—that someday you’ll love me back. Not because you have to, not because I forced you. Because you see me—the real me—and choose me anyway.”
I lean in, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of vanilla and sleep clinging to her. I brush a bit of hair off her forehead, gentle as I can.
“I love you, Katya,” I whisper. “More than I ever thought I could love anything.”
She sighs, a tiny, content sound. Her fingers twitch, curl toward me, like she’s reaching for me even now.
I stay like that for ages—watching her breathe, memorizing every line of her face in the moonlight. The anger I carried for weeks, the cold fury that drove me to corner her—feels far away now. Small. Nothing compared to this. Compared to her.
Eventually, I stand. Slow. Reluctant. I pull the sheet up over her shoulder. Kiss my fingers and press them to her temple, soft enough that she won’t feel it.
Then I leave.
I don’t go far. I sit in the hallway, back against the wall, knees up, head tipped back. I don’t sleep. I just wait.
For the morning.
For her to wake up.
For the chance—however small—that one day she’ll look at me the way I look at her.
I’ll be ready.