Chapter 43 Eva
EVA
I'm still wrapped in Roman's suit jacket, the fabric warm from his body and smelling of his cologne, when three imposing men in expensive suits approach me in the study.
Their presence fills the space with an authority that makes my spine straighten instinctively.
These aren't normal wedding guests. Everything about them screams power and danger, from their perfectly tailored suits to the calculating way their eyes sweep over me.
"Mrs. Sokolov." The tallest one speaks first, his Russian accent thick and formal. His gray hair is slicked back with precision, and his dark eyes miss nothing as they catalog my disheveled appearance. "Congratulations on your marriage."
The words should be celebratory, but they feel like an assessment. I'm acutely aware of how I must look, clutching Roman's jacket closed over my ruined dress, my carefully styled hair coming loose from its pins, my makeup probably smudged from the stress of the ceremony.
"Thank you." I force warmth into my voice, channeling every ounce of composure I possess.
He extends his hand, and his grip is firm, testing, then gestures to the other two men. "These are my colleagues. We represent certain interests in Moscow."
The Moscow delegation. My stomach clenches with dread, but I maintain my polite smile.
These are the men who hold Roman's future in their hands, who've come to judge whether he's fit to remain Pakhan.
And they've just witnessed the chaos of our wedding, the sabotaged dress, Irina's hysterical breakdown.
"It's an honor to meet you." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
His gaze drops to my stomach, lingering there for a moment before returning to my face. "We understand congratulations are doubly in order. An heir for the Pakhan. Very… fortuitous timing."
The implication in his tone makes my cheeks burn. He thinks I trapped Roman with a pregnancy, that I'm some opportunistic secretary who saw a chance and took it.
"Yes, we're very happy." I press my hand protectively over my belly beneath the jacket.
One of the other men, shorter and stockier with a thick beard, steps forward. His smile doesn't reach his cold blue eyes. "Might we borrow your husband for a few minutes? There are matters we need to discuss. Business matters."
The request is phrased as courtesy, but I hear the command beneath it. This isn't optional. They're summoning Roman like he's some subordinate rather than the Pakhan of this territory.
"Of course." I keep my voice steady despite the anxiety flooding my system. "I'm sure Roman would be happy to speak with you."
His expression suggests he knows exactly how unhappy Roman will be, but he nods with false politeness. "You're very understanding, Mrs. Sokolov. Your husband is fortunate to have such an… accommodating wife."
The way he emphasizes "accommodating" makes my skin crawl, but I maintain my composure as they turn toward the study. Roman appears in the doorway, his blue eyes immediately finding mine across the space. I see the question there, the concern, and I nod slightly to let him know I'm okay.
His expression hardens as the three men approach, his jaw tightening with barely controlled tension.
But he gestures them into the study with cold politeness, and the door closes with ominous finality.
The click of the lock echoes through the sudden silence, and I'm left standing in the hallway, my heart pounding with anxiety about what's happening behind that closed door.
I force myself to return to the reception, my heels clicking against the marble floors.
The guests are still celebrating, the string quartet playing something classical and beautiful, but I feel disconnected from it all.
My mind keeps circling back to Roman, to the Moscow delegates, to the judgment I saw in their calculating eyes.
I find Megan and Katya at a corner table, their heads bent together in animated conversation. The two women look fabulous in their elegant bridesmaid dresses. They're laughing about something, their voices bright with genuine warmth, and the sight eases some of the tension coiling in my chest.
"Eva!" Katya spots me first, her blue eyes lighting up. "Come sit. We were just comparing American and Russian wedding traditions. Did you know Megan has never tried proper Russian tea?"
"A tragedy," I say, settling into the chair beside them. Roman's jacket is still wrapped around my shoulders, and I clutch it closed, grateful for the coverage it provides.
Megan reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Are you okay? That whole thing with the dress was insane. I swear I fastened every single button perfectly."
"I know you did." I squeeze back, not wanting to explain about Irina's sabotage, about the chemical dissolver and the calculated cruelty. "It wasn't your fault."
Katya's expression darkens slightly. "Irina will pay for what she did. Roman won't let this go unpunished."
Somehow, Katya knows Irina was behind the sabotage.
The certainty in her voice reminds me of whom I've married, what world I've entered.
Roman is a Pakhan. Violence is his language, and retribution is expected.
The thought should terrify me, but instead, I feel a dark satisfaction that Irina will face consequences for trying to humiliate me on my wedding day.
We talk about safer things. Megan describes American wedding traditions, the bouquet toss and garter removal that we skipped in favor of Russian customs. Katya explains the symbolism of the crowning ceremony, how the heavy, ornate crowns represent the martyrdom of marriage, the sacrifices spouses make for each other.
But my attention keeps drifting toward the study and the closed door hiding whatever judgment is being passed on my husband.
The minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. I smile at guests who approach with congratulations, accept their well-wishes with practiced grace, and try not to imagine the worst.
When Roman finally emerges, my heart leaps into my throat.
He's been in there for over an hour, and his expression is carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
But I've learned to read the subtle tells he thinks he's hidden.
The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands curl slightly at his sides.
The tightness around his eyes that suggests the meeting didn't go as well as he'd hoped.
His blue eyes find me immediately across the reception hall, and something in his expression softens. He moves through the crowd with that predatory grace that always makes my breath catch, and when he reaches our table, he extends his hand.
"Dance with me, solnyshko."
The endearment makes my chest tight. I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet, and he leads me onto the dance floor. The band strikes up a traditional Russian waltz, something slow and romantic, and Roman's arm slides around my waist with possessive certainty.
We move together, and despite everything, my body responds to his proximity with embarrassing eagerness.
I'm acutely aware of his hand at the small of my back, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of his jacket.
The way his chest presses against mine with each turn, firm and solid and real.
His cologne fills my lungs with every breath, mixing with something darker, more dangerous.
"Everything is fine with the delegates," he murmurs against my ear, his accent thick and rough. "They were satisfied with what they saw."
I want to believe him, but I feel the tension vibrating through his body, see the way his jaw tightens when he thinks I'm not looking. "Roman, what did they say?"
"Nothing that matters right now." His hand slides lower on my back, dangerously close to my ass, and heat floods through me despite the anxiety churning in my stomach.
"Right now, all that matters is that you're my wife.
That you're wearing my jacket. That tonight, you'll finally be in my bed where you belong. "
The promise in his voice sends desire straight to my core. My nipples tighten beneath the ruined dress, and I see his gaze drop to notice, his pupils dilating with hunger. Even here, even surrounded by witnesses, he looks at me like he wants to devour me.
"I've been patient," he continues, his lips brushing my ear in a way that makes me shiver.
"Letting you keep your distance, giving you space to adjust. But tonight, solnyshko, I'm done being patient.
Tonight, I'm going to strip away every barrier between us and remind you exactly who you belong to. "
My thighs clench involuntarily, and I feel wetness pooling between my legs. God, even just his words make me ache for him. "Roman…"
"I'm going to take my time with you." His hand slides up my spine, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Worship every inch of your body. Make you scream my name until you forget why you ever tried to resist me."
The waltz ends, but we stay frozen on the dance floor, our bodies pressed together, his blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
I can feel the hard length of him against my stomach, evidence of how much he wants me, and my body responds with a hunger that has nothing to do with logic.
"Take me upstairs," I whisper, surprising myself with the boldness.
Roman's expression transforms into something predatory and possessive.
He doesn't bother with polite goodbyes to our guests.
He simply sweeps me into his arms, carrying me through the reception hall like I weigh nothing.
Guests cheer and whistle, their laughter following us as he carries me up the grand staircase.
The third floor feels different now. No longer just his space, but ours.
He kicks open the master bedroom door and sets me on my feet beside the massive bed.
The room is elegant and masculine, all dark wood and expensive fabrics, but I barely notice the décor.
All I see is Roman, his blue eyes dark with desire as he slowly removes his jacket from my shoulders.
The ruined dress falls away easily, the destroyed lacework offering no resistance. I stand before him in just my white lace lingerie, and his sharp intake of breath makes me feel powerful despite my vulnerability.
"Bozhe moy," he breathes, his accent thick.
His hands slide up my sides, feeling the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips. When he cups my breasts through the lace, I arch into his touch with a moan I can't suppress. My body has been craving this, craving him, despite every logical reason I should maintain distance.
Roman's mouth claims mine with devastating precision, and I taste champagne and something darker, more dangerous.
His tongue slides against mine, demanding and possessive, and I respond with equal hunger.
My hands work the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, to touch the hard planes of his chest.
When we finally tumble onto the bed, there's no desperation tonight.
No anger or fear driving us together. Roman takes his time, his hands and mouth worshipping my body with a reverence that makes my chest ache.
He traces every curve, kisses every inch of exposed skin, murmurs Russian endearments against my throat that I only half understand but feel in my bones.
When he finally enters me, it's slow and deliberate, his blue eyes holding mine as he fills me completely. We move together with a rhythm that feels ancient and new all at once, two people discovering each other without barriers, without the weight of circumstances crushing down on them.
I come apart in his arms with a cry that echoes through the master bedroom, and Roman follows moments later, my name on his lips like a prayer. We collapse together, our bodies still joined, both breathing hard.
As we lie tangled in the expensive sheets, Roman's hand drifts to my stomach, his palm warm against my skin. "My wife," he murmurs, the possessive satisfaction in his voice unmistakable. "My child. Mine."
The words should feel like a cage. Instead, they feel like safety.
And that's when it hits me with devastating clarity.
I've fallen in love with Roman Sokolov.
The realization crashes over me like ice water, stealing my breath, making my heart pound with something that feels like terror.
I love this dangerous man. This Pakhan who kills without hesitation, who runs an empire built on blood and violence.
I love the way he looks at me like I'm something precious.
The way his hands are surprisingly gentle despite the violence they're capable of.
The way he protects what's his with ruthless efficiency.
I love him.
And it scares the absolute shit out of me.