Chapter 2 Masks and Knives
MASKS AND KNIVES
DOMINIC
The mask sat wrong on my face. Too tight across the bridge of my nose, the elastic cutting into my skin behind my ears. I'd been adjusting the bloody thing for ten minutes and it still felt like wearing someone else's skull.
“You know it's supposed to cover your face, not strangle you.” Viktor leaned against the doorframe of the side chamber, already dressed in white, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread.
No mask yet, just that sharp jawline and the kind of calm that came before major life decisions or fistfights.
I shot him a look. “It's cutting off circulation.”
“It’s just elastic. You’ve survived worse.”
“Worse things fit better.”
He pushed off the doorframe, crossed to me in three strides. “Let me see.” His hands were quick, adjusting the strap with the efficiency of someone who'd spent years making things fit properly. “There. Now you look less like a hostage.”
“Cheers.”
“You are welcome.” He stepped back, studied me with that assessing look he got sometimes. Not calculating threats. Just reading people. “You brought a flask, yes?”
I pulled it from my jacket pocket. Whiskey. Good stuff. Viktor grinned, took it, unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull before handing it back.
“Dutch courage?” I asked.
“Russian courage. It’s better.” He moved to the window, looked out at the gardens where staff were finishing last-minute setup. “I am getting married.”
“Noticed that.”
“In approximately thirty minutes.”
“Clock's ticking.”
“To a prince.”
I took a drink from the flask, let the burn settle. “You planning to bolt, or are we just stating facts for fun?”
“Stating facts.” He turned from the window. “But also, maybe panicking. Small amount.”
“How small?”
“Very large small amount.”
I snorted, couldn't help it. Viktor looked at me, something easing in his expression. “You laugh. Good. Means I am not the only one thinking this is insane.”
“It's not insane.”
“I am a Russian criminal marrying a prince in a British palace. Is very insane.”
“You're a reformed Russian criminal.”
“Reformed.” Viktor tested the word. “Sebastian thinks so. Adrian thinks so. You think so?”
“I think you're standing here in a white suit about to make vows in front of two hundred people. That's pretty bloody reformed.”
He laughed, low and rough. “Fair point.” Then his expression shifted, went serious. “Dom. I need ask you something.”
“What?”
“Will you stand with me? When I make my vows?”
I blinked. “You've got Adrian for that.”
“Adrian is best man. I want you there too. As...” He paused, searching for the word. “As brother. Not best man. Just. There.”
The flask felt heavier in my hand. “Viktor.”
“I know you do not like attention. I know you prefer to stay in the background. But I need family up there, and you are family. So.” He met my eyes.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'll stand with you.”
His shoulders dropped half an inch. Relief. “Good. Is settled.” He moved back to the window, stared out at nothing. “You think I will mess this up?”
“No.”
“You answered too fast. You did not even think.”
“Didn't need to think. You won't mess it up.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you're terrified,” I said. “People who don't care don't get scared. You're scared because it matters. That's how I know you won't mess it up.”
Viktor was quiet for a long moment. Then: “This is why I ask you to stand with me. You say things that make sense when nothing else does.”
“I just tell you what's obvious.”
“To you. Not to me.” He pulled his mask from his pocket, turned it over in his hands. White leather, simple, elegant. “Sebastian chose this. Said it would match suit.”
“Does he choose all your clothes now?”
“Most of them. I have terrible taste apparently.”
“You wore leather jackets and combat boots to business meetings.”
“Exactly. Terrible taste.” He grinned. “But now I have Sebastian, so I look respectable.”
“You look like you're about to get married.”
“Same thing.” He slipped the mask on, adjusted it. “How do I look?”
“Like a bloke in a mask.”
“Helpful. Thank you.”
“You look good. Stop fishing.”
He laughed, pulled the mask off again. “I save it for the ceremony. For now, I’m just be nervous Viktor who drinks your whiskey.” He held out his hand. I passed the flask. He took another drink, handed it back. “You know what is strange?”
“What?”
“I am not scared of marriage. I am scared I will wake up and this will be a dream. That I will be back in Moscow, cold and angry, and Sebastian will not be real.”
“He's real.”
“I know. But sometimes I forget. Sometimes I think I do not deserve real things.”
“Viktor.”
“I know, I know. You will tell me I am being stupid. That I should just be happy and stop thinking too much.”
“I wasn't going to say that.”
He looked at me, surprised. “No?”
“No. I was going to say that if this was a dream, it'd be a shit one. Dreams don't make you wear uncomfortable masks or stand in front of two hundred people. They're easier than this.”
Viktor stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing. “This is your pep talk? That my wedding is too annoying to be a dream?”
“It's working, isn't it?”
“Da. Is working.” He clapped my shoulder, grip firm.
“Everything's not perfect.”
“No. But is real. And real is better.”
The door opened. Adrian appeared, already masked, immaculate in black. “You two finished with whatever this is? People are seated.”
Viktor straightened, rolled his shoulders back. “We are finished. Dom gave me pep talk.”
Adrian looked at me. “How'd that go?”
“Told him his wedding's too annoying to be a dream.”
“Christ.” Adrian shook his head. “That actually worked?”
“It worked,” Viktor confirmed. He pulled his mask on, adjusted it one last time. “Okay. I am ready. Let us go get married before I change my mind.”
“You're not changing your mind,” Adrian said.
“I know. But saying it makes me feel brave.” Viktor moved toward the door, paused beside Adrian. “Thank you. For everything.”
Adrian's expression softened. “Get out there before Sebastian thinks you've run.”
We followed Viktor out into the corridor, footsteps echoing on marble. The palace was ridiculous. All gilt and crystal and portraits of the dead. But it was beautiful too, in that untouchable way expensive things always were.
“You good?” I asked Viktor as we approached the ballroom.
“No. But I will be.” He glanced at me. “You good?”
“I'm not the one getting married.”
“True. But you are one standing beside me. So. You good?”
I thought about it. About standing in front of two hundred people, about witnessing something this important, about being trusted with this. “Yeah. I'm good.”
“Liar. But I appreciate effort.”
The ballroom doors opened. Music swelled. Viktor took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked toward his future like he'd walked into a hundred fights.
The ceremony was mercifully short. Viktor and Sebastian stood at the front of the room, framed by white roses and enough candles to be a fire hazard, and said words that were probably beautiful but I was too focused on not looking like an idiot to properly hear.
I stood beside Viktor, Dmitri on his other side, both of us playing the role of his family. Sebastian's side was full—actual family, the kind that showed up and smiled and didn't try to kill you. Viktor's side was smaller. More selective. Harder-earned.
When Viktor slid the ring onto Sebastian's finger, his hands shook. Not much. But enough that I saw it. Sebastian smiled at him, said something too quiet for anyone else to hear, and Viktor's whole body relaxed.
They kissed. The room erupted in applause. Viktor's hand found mine for half a second, squeezed once, then let go.
The ceremony ended. People stood, moved, reformed into new configurations as the ballroom transformed from a chapel to celebration. Staff appeared like magic, clearing chairs, setting up tables, turning the space into something meant for dancing and drinking and the performance of joy.
I found Luka near the doors, tall and relaxed in dark red, mask pushed up on his forehead. He held two glasses of champagne, shoved one at me.
“You survived standing up there without passing out. Impressive.”
I took the glass but didn't drink. “It wasn't that bad.”
“You looked like you were at a funeral.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did. Very stoic. Very 'I am suffering but will not show it.' Very you.” He grinned, took a drink. “Viktor cried.”
“He didn't cry.”
“He teared up. During the vows. I saw it.”
“That's not crying.”
“It's crying-adjacent. Close enough.” Luka's gaze tracked across the room to where Dmitri was talking to Adrian. “Whole thing was surprisingly nice. For a wedding.”
“High praise from you.”
“I hate weddings. But this one wasn't terrible.” He paused. “You see Ash earlier?”
“Not yet. Why?”
“He's on the terrace. Hiding. These things are rough for him sometimes. Crowds, formal events.” Luka's expression shifted, went careful. “Could use someone checking on him.”
“I'll find him,” I said.
“Good. Tell him I'll be out in a minute. Just need to make sure Dmitri hasn't started a fight with the French delegation.”
“Has he?”
“Not yet. But the night's young.” Luka clapped my shoulder, moved off toward where Dmitri was gesturing emphatically at a man in an expensive suit.
I set my champagne down on a passing tray, untouched, and headed for the terrace.
I found Ash exactly where Luka said he'd be. Leaning against the stone balustrade, staring out at the gardens, his mask still in place. White. Simple. Covering the upper half of his face like armour.
“Hiding?” I asked.
He didn't turn. “Surviving.”
“Same thing sometimes.”
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, nearly lost beneath the music drifting through the open doors. “You?”
“Same.” I moved to stand beside him, leaned against the balustrade. The gardens below were lit with lanterns, paths winding between hedges shaped into geometric patterns that probably meant something to people who cared about symbolism. “Luka sent me.”