Chapter Fourteen - Diana
The ceremony happens three days later in a small Orthodox chapel tucked into the far corner of the estate grounds.
The building is old stone and stained glass, maintained for occasions exactly like this—Bratva unions conducted quietly, witnessed minimally, blessed by a priest who asks no questions about the families he serves.
I wear a dress someone selected without consulting me—ivory silk that fits perfectly because they have my measurements, simple cut that suggests elegance without the performance of traditional bridal wear.
The ring Felix slides onto my finger during the ceremony is platinum, understated, heavy enough that I feel its weight every time I move my hand.
Two witnesses stand in silence near the altar—Pavel, who watches with an expression I can’t read, and a woman I don’t recognize who signs the marriage certificate with efficient detachment.
Felix stands beside me in a dark suit, his voice steady as he repeats vows I barely hear through the roaring in my ears. When the priest asks if I take this man, I say yes without looking at him.
The priest blesses our union in Russian I don’t understand. Felix kisses me briefly—a formal press of lips that carries no heat, just acknowledgment that the ritual is complete.
We’re married.
I’m Diana Rudenko now, bound to a man who watched me sleep and held a knife to my throat and just declared me untouchable through structures that supersede the council authority that wanted me dead.
The weight of it doesn’t fully land until we’re back at the main house, paperwork filed, witnesses dismissed.
Felix walks me to the master bedroom on the second floor—a space I’ve never entered, larger than my entire Brooklyn apartment, dominated by a king bed that suddenly feels impossibly significant.
“Your belongings have been moved here,” he says, gesturing toward the closet where I find my clothes hanging beside his. “The bathroom is through that door. If you need anything, there’s an intercom system that connects to central control.”
The clinical tone grates against the reality that we just got married and are now standing in a bedroom we’re expected to share.
“Where are you sleeping?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Here.” His pale eyes meet mine directly. “We’re married. Separate bedrooms would raise questions I’d rather avoid.”
“I don’t want to share a bed with you.”
“You’re supposed to share a life with me.” He moves closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “The bed is part of that.”
Panic flutters beneath my ribs. I knew this was coming—knew that marriage meant proximity I couldn’t control, intimacy I wasn’t ready for—but standing here in this bedroom with Felix watching me like I’m a problem he’s still calculating how to solve, the reality feels overwhelming.
“I need time,” I say, hating how my voice wavers.
“Take all the time you need.” His tone doesn’t soften, but something shifts in his expression. “I’m not going to force you into anything you’re not ready for.”
The reassurance should help. It doesn’t. The problem isn’t fear that he’ll force me; the problem is the traitorous heat that’s been building every time he touches me, every time proximity collapses into something dangerous.
My body doesn’t seem to care about hatred when he steps close enough that I can smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off him.
“You don’t get to dictate my entire existence,” I snap, shoving at his chest with both hands.
He catches my wrists, his grip firm. “I get to keep you alive. That requires certain appearances.”
“I’m not your performing wife.” I wrench against his hold, futile but necessary. “I agreed to marry you. I didn’t agree to play happy couple for your syndicate colleagues.”
“You agreed to become my wife. That includes responsibilities beyond signing paperwork.” His fingers tighten slightly, not painful but unmistakably controlling.
“Responsibilities like pretending this is protection instead of ownership?”
“Like accepting that protection and ownership aren’t mutually exclusive in this world.”
The honesty of it—the blunt acknowledgment that he views me as both asset to protect and possession to claim—ignites something volatile inside me. I shove at him again, harder, and this time he releases my wrists.
We stand inches apart, breathing hard, the air between us charged with anger and something far more dangerous. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there long enough that heat floods through me despite every logical reason to pull away.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I tell him, though my voice comes out rougher than intended. “Marriage doesn’t make me yours.”
“Doesn’t it?” He reaches up slowly, giving me time to retreat, and cups my jaw with one hand.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, the touch light enough to feel questioning rather than demanding.
“You’re wearing my ring and sleeping in my bed.
Bound to me legally in ways you can’t undo. What part of that isn’t mine?”
The possessiveness should repel me. Should remind me that this man let my brother die, that he’s kept me prisoner for weeks, that everything about this arrangement is coercion dressed as choice.
When his thumb presses slightly against my lip, my mouth parts without conscious decision.
The sharp inhale I take betrays me completely. Felix’s eyes darken, recognition flickering across his expression as he catalogs my reaction with the same analytical precision he applies to everything.
“You’ve never done this,” he says quietly, and it’s not a question.
Humiliation burns hot through the desire. I try to step back, but his hand shifts to the back of my neck, holding me in place gently.
“Diana.” My name in his voice sounds different. “Answer me.”
“Does it matter?” The deflection is weak.
“Yes.”
I force myself to meet his gaze, refusing to let shame make me retreat. “No. I haven’t. Are you satisfied?”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or calculation adjusting to new information. His hand slides from my neck down to my waist, fingers spreading across the curve where the dress pulls tight.
“Satisfied isn’t the word I’d use.” His voice drops lower, rough around the edges in a way I haven’t heard before. “It changes things.”
“How?”
Instead of answering, he pulls me closer, eliminating the remaining space between us. My hands come up instinctively to brace against his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath expensive fabric, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat that betrays none of the tension coiled in his body.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper, even as my fingers curl into his shirt.
“Probably.” His mouth hovers near mine, breath warm against my lips. “So tell me to stop.”
I kiss him.
Felix makes a sound low in his throat and deepens the kiss, his control fracturing enough that I feel the restraint it costs him to keep the touch measured. His hand slides up from my waist to tangle in my hair, angling my head to take the kiss deeper.
I’ve been kissed before—awkward fumbling in college, a few dates that went nowhere—but nothing prepared me for this. For the way Felix kisses like he’s claiming territory, possessive and thorough, demanding response I give without thinking.
My back hits the wall beside the bed. I don’t remember moving, but suddenly Felix is pressing against me fully, one hand still in my hair while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks. The solid weight of him pins me in place, and instead of panic, heat floods through my entire body.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, teeth grazing skin that’s never been touched this way. I gasp, head tilting back automatically to give him better access.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my throat, voice rough.
“I don’t know.” The honesty escapes before I can filter it.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his pale gaze dark with desire that makes my pulse jump. “Then I’ll show you.”
His hand slides from my hip down to my thigh, fingers finding the hem of my dress and pushing the fabric up slowly.
When his fingers brush against bare skin above my knee, I make a sound I don’t recognize and pull him closer instead.
Felix groans, the sound vibrating against my throat where his mouth has returned. His hand continues upward, mapping the soft curve of my thigh with touches that feel exploratory and possessive in equal measure.
“You’re shaking,” he observes, fingers pausing just below the edge of my underwear.
“I’m fine.” The lie is transparent.
“You’re nervous.” He kisses along my collarbone, teeth catching briefly before soothing with his tongue. “You want this anyway.”
The observation strips away pretense I was clinging to.
His fingers slide higher, brushing against fabric that’s already damp with arousal I can’t hide. The touch is light, testing, and my hips roll forward involuntarily seeking more pressure.
His fingers slide beneath the fabric and find wet heat that makes him curse softly against my throat.
The sensation overwhelms immediately—his hand between my thighs, his body pinning me against the wall, his mouth working across skin that’s hypersensitive to every touch.
I grab his shoulders for stability, fingers digging into muscle as he explores with the same methodical precision he applies to everything.
When he finds my clit, it makes me gasp sharply. He focuses there with deliberate attention. Pressure builds fast and overwhelming, sensation layering until I can’t think past the need for more.
“Felix—” His name comes out broken, desperate.
“I know.” His free hand slides up to cup my breast through the dress, thumb brushing across the nipple that’s hardened into a visible peak. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The dual stimulation pushes me over an edge I didn’t know I was approaching. Pleasure crashes through me in waves that make my legs give out, Felix’s grip the only thing keeping me upright as I shudder against him.
He works me through it, touch gentling as aftershocks roll through my body, his mouth pressing soft kisses against my temple that feel incongruous with everything else about this moment.
When I can breathe again, awareness returns with mortifying clarity.
Felix pulls back enough to meet my eyes, his expression unreadable except for the desire still evident in his darkened gaze and the visible evidence pressing against my hip.
“That was…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“A start.” He releases me carefully, steadying me when my legs threaten to buckle. “We’re stopping here.”
Confusion cuts through the post-orgasm haze. “What?”
“You’re not ready for more.” He steps back deliberately, putting space between us that feels almost painful. “When you come to me completely, it will be your choice.”
The control it costs him is visible in the tension coiled through his shoulders, the deliberate steadiness of his movements as he crosses to the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
I’m left alone against the wall, dress hiked up around my hips, body still trembling with aftershocks, furious at myself for wanting him despite everything.