Chapter 12 Nikolai
NIKOLAI
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m marrying you.”
She stands so fast she stumbles, and I have to grab onto her to steady her.
“From where I’m standing, you don’t have much choice,” I say.
She shakes me off. “Does the priest know that I’m here against my will? That you’ve kidnapped me?”
“No, and he won’t. Not if you know what is good for you.”
She grits her teeth. “I’m not marrying you.”
"We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. It’s your choice."
"There is no easy way, not for me," she snaps, but she moves toward me anyway. "You can't actually expect me to go through with this."
"I expect exactly that."
Her eyes flash with something dangerous. "Why do you want to marry me?"
"Because I need a wife. And lucky you, you're it."
"That's not a reason." She steps into my space, all fire and fury, her boldness fueled by several glasses of wine. "Why do you need a wife?"
"Because a family makes a pakhan stronger."
And it’s true. A family strengthens a pakhan’s position. It does not make him vulnerable. It makes him more determined, more fierce, and more capable of anything when it comes to protecting them.
I remove a photograph from my breast pocket and hand it to her. She looks at it and I see the color drain from her face.
“Nana,” she whispers.
Nana. Otherwise known as Greta Whitman. The neighbor who raised Holly after her parents died. She’s currently residing in a nursing home in Seattle.
Holly’s eyes snap up to mine, and if I thought I'd seen fire in her before, it's nothing compared to what burns there now.
This is something primal and protective. A lioness baring her teeth.
"Keep her out of this.” The words are spoken as a warning. “Whatever you want from me, fine. But you leave her alone. She has nothing to do with any of this."
"Then don't make me involve her in it." I keep my voice steady, letting the threat settle between us.
I don't elaborate. I don’t need to. I can see it written all over her face.
The realization. The hatred. The submission.
“If I go along with this sham of a marriage, do you swear she’s not in danger?”
“The only crime against Nana will be that she missed out on your happy day,” I say.
“Say you swear it,” she demands.
She looks at me with pure hatred. Like she's memorizing exactly where to place the knife when she finally gets the chance.
“If you marry me, Nana doesn’t need to know anything. She’ll be safe. You have my word.”
Holly scoffs but doesn’t bite.
So I add, “But I expect you to be more accommodating and less stubborn. Stop fighting me at every turn.”
“You expect me to be submissive, you mean.”
“Yes.”
She huffs out a breath and looks away. "Fine. But if I get out of this alive, I'm just going to have it annulled."
Holly follows me into the great room where Father Dominic waits with Dmitri and Alexei.
Father Dominic has known me since I was a boy. Before I became the man that might be beyond saving.
He approaches us, his smile gentle as always. "Nikolai Morozov," he says, his voice affectionate. "It has been quite some time since I've seen your face in church."
"I know, Father." I incline my head respectfully. "I will have to rectify that."
"Indeed." His gaze shifts to Holly, softening further. "And you, my dear, must be the future Mrs. Morozov. My congratulations.”
“Thank you, Father,” Holly says almost shyly.
“Now before we start, I must ask if you are certain about this union?"
I can feel Holly's hesitation. For a moment, I think she might refuse and force my hand into showing just how far I'm willing to go.
But she seems to soften under his gaze. "Yes, Father."
"Then let’s begin, shall we?" Father Dominic gestures for us to join him beside the fireplace.
I position myself beside Holly. She doesn't look at me. Just stares straight ahead like she's willing herself to be anywhere else.
The ceremony is brief. No family gathered. No celebration. Just two reluctant participants and the men with guns standing in the corners.
When it's time for the vows, Holly's voice is flat. She speaks each word like it's being extracted from her with pliers. But I say mine with warmth and enjoy watching Holly squirm under my gaze as I say them.
Father Dominic produces the rings. Two simple bands I had Dmitri pick up earlier. Nothing that screams romance or commitment. Just cold metal that will mark her as mine.
I slide the ring onto her finger, and I can feel the tension thrumming through her.
When it's her turn to slide the ring on my finger, her eyes finally meet mine, and the hatred I see burning there is almost beautiful in its intensity.
She's murdering me with every look. Planning my death in a thousand different ways. I've put her over a barrel and she knows it, and she hates me for it.
"By the power vested in me," Father Dominic says, "I now pronounce you husband and wife." He glances between us, and I catch the faint smile playing at his lips. "You may kiss your bride."
I turn to Holly, one eyebrow raised in question. Her jaw sets, her chin lifting in defiance.
"Not in this lifetime, king," she warns, her voice low and deadly.
I smile then, slow and measured. Let it spread across my face until I know she can see every ounce of satisfaction I'm feeling.
Father Dominic leans forward a little. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you to seal it with a kiss.”
Holly's eyes widen, darting between the priest and me. "You can't be serious."
"It's tradition, my dear," he says kindly.
I watch the war playing out across her face. She knows she's trapped. That there is no point in refusing. Because I always get my way.
"Fine," she bites out, turning to face me fully. "Let's get this over with."
I step closer and I can see her pulse hammering at her throat. Her hands clench into fists at her sides.
"Just make it quick," she mutters.
I smile. "As my wife commands."
She expects a brief touch to satisfy tradition and nothing more.
But I’m going to take advantage of the moment to enjoy Holly’s lips on mine.
I cup her face in my hands and lower my mouth to hers. The first brush of lips sends a shockwave through my entire body, because she is softer, warmer, and sweeter than I expected.
For half a heartbeat she's frozen, still clinging to that beautiful defiance, but then something breaks in her, and her sweet lips part against my mouth.
It’s all the invitation I need. I deepen the kiss, angling her head back, and when my tongue sweeps against hers, she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.
I want to devour her.
I want to spend the night making her moan louder.
Her body melts into mine, her soft curves molding against hard muscle, her mouth opening wider and meeting every stroke of my tongue with increasing desperation.
Then she wrenches herself away and stumbles backward, glaring across at me.
Her lips are swollen and red, her pupils blown wide, and she's looking at me like I've just committed another crime.
"You..." Her voice is wrecked and breathless but she stops short of calling me another name.
She glares at me with blazing eyes, trying desperately to summon back her anger even as her fingers touch her own mouth like she can't believe what just happened.
"It's good to be king," I say.
I wink at her. Because I like the way she looks at me like she hates me. When I know her body is throbbing from our kiss.
She looks away. Her cheeks are pink and it’s not from the wine. It’s because the kiss warmed her blood as much as it warmed mine.
She clears her throat, clearly rattled. “Let’s move this along, shall we?”
A scribble of signatures later and we’re official.
Holly is my wife. Much to her disgust.
Father Dominic accepts the envelope of cash Dmitri hands him with a slight nod. "May God bless you both," he says.
And when he leaves, escorted out by Alexei and Dmitri, the room falls silent and we are alone.
"Mrs. Morozov," I say to Holly, testing the name.
Her eyes blaze. "Don't."
"It's your name now. You should get used to hearing it."
"I will never get used to this." She yanks at the ring, but it doesn't budge. "This isn't real. This doesn't mean anything. I'm not yours."
"The paperwork says differently." I smile. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll discuss the terms of our arrangement."
"What terms? You've made it clear I have no say in anything."
"You always have a say." I move toward her slowly, watching her tense. "You just might not like your options."
We stand there, husband and wife, staring at each other across a chasm wider than any blizzard. She hates me. I can see it written in every line of her body and hear it in every breath she takes.
Frustrated and angry, she turns and walks toward the stairs.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Morozov," I say.
But she doesn't respond and disappears down the hallway to her room.