32. Aurora
32
AURORA
I stand stock-still as Lauren makes one final adjustment to my wedding gown, her pins darting in and out of the delicate fabric with practiced precision. The assistants flutter around me like anxious butterflies, smoothing barely visible wrinkles and adjusting the veil's placement behind me.
"Almost perfect," Lauren murmurs, stepping back to assess her work. "You can breathe now, dear."
Can I? My lungs feel pinched, and not just from the fitted bodice.
The makeup artist tilts my chin up, dabbing one last touch of blush along my cheekbones. "There. Absolutely stunning."
When they finally allow me to look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The woman staring back at me looks like she belongs on the cover of a bridal magazine. Radiant, ethereal, and completely unlike the terrified prop assistant who critiqued movie scripts in dark alleys just a few weeks ago.
"You look beautiful," one of the assistants breathes.
I do look beautiful.
The dress hugs my body before cascading to the floor in elegant waves. My hair is swept into an intricate updo with a few tendrils left loose to frame my face. My makeup is light, helping enhance my face instead of reshaping it into a mask that I don't recognize.
But I'm also aware of just how alone I am.
A wave of sadness crashes over me, unexpected and vicious.
It should be mom who fusses over my veil. Dad should be pacing nervously somewhere, rehearsing the speech he'd give before walking me down the aisle. My little brother should be making inappropriate jokes with Hannah to help lighten the mood.
Instead, there's just me.
Aurora Castellanos. Or rather, Jamie Fields wearing Aurora Castellanos's face.
Why am I doing this again?
For protection , my mind answers immediately. For safety .
But is it really safety when I'm marrying into a world where fifteen-year-old girls talk about death without blinking? Where families use daughters as bargaining chips? Where people disappear without a trace?
I close my eyes, remembering Ruslan's hands on my body, the whispered " zarechka " in my ear, and the way he held me against his calming heartbeat as the sun rose.
The way we made love yesterday in these very gardens, when he promised me that it doesn't matter if I don't know this world. Just knowing him is enough.
There's safety there, isn't there? In his arms?
But Liliya's warnings echo in my head: There is no safety in this world.
The door opens, and I turn to see Daria standing there, resplendent and sharp in her dark blue dress that speaks of dignity and tradition.
"Is the bride ready?" she asks, her eyes softening as they meet mine.
I take one final deep breath. "I am."
Daria leads me down a flower-lined path, her steps measured and sure while mine falter with each passing moment. The garden around us bursts with carefully arranged beauty. Roses and lilies frame an aisle I never thought I'd ever walk down.
Orchestral music floats through the air as the string quartet plays something that should soothe my nerves.
But instead, all the music does is heighten my anxiety.
My gaze drifts past the floral arrangements to the men stationed at regular intervals around the perimeter, guns held tightly in their hand as their eyes scan the grounds for any sign of trouble.
"Beautiful day for a wedding," Daria murmurs. "And you look beautiful as well, dear."
It is beautiful. Sunshine streams through the trees, creating dappled patterns on the path. But I can't stop looking at the guards...
When I first arrived here, those same men with their steady hands and watchful eyes had made me feel protected. Safe from Kristofer's shadow. Safe from the man who tried to murder me in my apartment after Mikhail's death
But today, they feel like prison guards.
Daria stops abruptly, and I nearly collide with her back. Her posture straightens up, and there's a slight yet noticeable tremor running along her arm.
I step from behind Daria and catch sight of an imposing figure standing at the end of the path.
He looks old, somewhere in his late sixties if I had to guess, but he gives off no impression of his age.
In spite of his age, he is still a solid mountain of a man whose presence seems to command the very air around him. His white beard is neatly trimmed on his chiseled face. The paleness of his impeccable cream suit makes the bright red shirt underneath pop like fresh blood against snow.
And his piercing blue eyes are locked onto mine.
He studies me not with lust but with assessment, like I'm a horse being sized up before auction. When his gaze finds Liliya's ring adorning my finger, something flickers across his face before disappearing behind the mask of calculation.
"I am here to walk the bride down the aisle, Daria Zakharovna," he announces, his voice resonating with authority that brooks no argument. "You may leave now."
Daria bows and skitters away, walking quickly as if she can't wait to put as much distance between them as she can.
Wait a minute… I recognize that voice.
It's the same one that spoke to Ruslan about his future following the funeral.
Gregor Belov.
"Have you thought this decision through, Ms. Castellanos?" His tone implies he already knows I haven't.
"I have." I straighten my spine, determined to not show him just how much he intimidates me. "And I'm not going anywhere else."
"Very brave," he nods, his words echoing Liliya's warning. Bravery is not enough.
He extends his arm toward me. "Come."
I place my hand on his forearm, feeling the expensive fabric of his suit beneath my fingertips. And that's when another overwhelming wave of grief crashes through me.
It should be dad walking me down this aisle, proud and teary-eyed, whispering some terrible dad joke to calm my nerves, and not this terrifying mountain of a man.
But dad's not here.
He's nothing but dust and bones in Kansas City.
Look what you made me do.
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. Their deaths sit heavy on my shoulders. It's all my fault.
But even through this crushing guilt, I know what I'm doing is something right. Ruslan's nieces need protection from men like Gregor. Men who see children as chess pieces to be sacrificed. Monsters like Kristofer exist in every world. And if by doing this, I might be able to help keep Mikayla, Stella, and Sofia safe from those monsters, then it'll be worth it.
I feel Gregor's arm pulling me along as we begin the slow processional through the rows of seated guests. My eyes sweep over the crowd at faces I don't recognize.
"Vyacheslav Potyomkin," Gregor nods subtly toward a severe-looking man with a permanent scowl etched into his face. "The lord of Las Vegas. His first wife died under mysterious circumstances. So did the second, now that I think about it."
The woman beside Vyacheslav, his third wife I presume, keeps her eyes fixed on her lap, her shoulders curved inward like a wilting flower. She doesn't look a day over twenty-three, wearing a wedding ring that looks too heavy for her delicate finger.
As we continue our slow parade, more faces turn toward me. Some curious, some calculating, and some openly hostile.
"Ivan Svarikov," Gregor murmurs, nodding toward a man with silver streaks in his dark hair seated near the front. "And his wife Anastasia, who hasn't spoken a word since her sister's unfortunate death two years ago."
Ivan's gaze meets mine with unnerving directness. Unlike Vyacheslav's hungry stare, his eyes hold a cold, clinical interest that makes my skin crawl even more.
Anastasia wears a serene smile that doesn't reach her haunted eyes. The heavy choker necklace around her neck catches the sunlight, and I can't help notice the fading bruises peeking out beneath the diamonds.
"Ivan demands submission," Gregor adds with disturbing casualness, as though discussing the weather. "And he is fond of teaching very painful lessons."
One by one, Gregor introduces the men who rule this world—each more intimidating and awful than the last, each with a wife who seems utterly terrified beside him. All of them seem to have perfected the art of invisibility, existing without taking up space.
Mikayla's words echo in my mind: You have no idea the kind of horrors my mother endured at Lev's hands, the screams that I grew up hearing behind their bedroom door.
Is this to be my future? This silent submission, this careful tiptoeing around a husband's rage?
No. Ruslan isn't like them.
He's shown me kindness. Tenderness. He asked for my consent before ever touching me. He listened when I spoke. He wiped away my tears.
And together, he and I will save his nieces from suffering the fates of these other wives.
But with each step forward, doubt creeps in like poison. Especially when I notice how the other pakhans look at me with curiosity, amusement, and hunger.
To them, I'm fresh meat.
A novelty.
An outsider who doesn't understand the rules of their world.
For one wild moment, I imagine tearing my arm from Gregor's grasp and running past the guards, past the gates, and disappearing into the hills beyond the estate.
Freedom lies somewhere out there, doesn't it?
But I know better. There is no escape now. Not from Kristofer, who haunts my nightmares. Not from the bratva world I've willingly entered. The moment I said yes to Ruslan's proposal, I sealed my fate.
And now I must walk toward it, one step at a time, even as every instinct screams at me to flee.
I force myself to look away from this nightmare parade and focus on what awaits me at the altar.
On Ruslan.
He stands at the altar, his posture rigid and face arranged in that cold, impassive mask like the rest of the pakhans. His golden-brown hair catches the sunlight, and his suit fits his powerful frame with precision that speaks of wealth and authority.
But when I stare into his eyes, his expression transforms.
The cold mask remains for everyone else to see, but his eyes. Those light gold eyes that have looked down at me with such tenderness. They soften immediately.
It's like watching ice melt in spring sunshine, a private transformation meant only for me.
A silent message passes between us: I see you. I'm here with you. We're in this together.
And no one will dare hurt you.
His gaze steadies me like an anchor in a storm. Suddenly, the whispers, the stares, and the horrifying introductions. They all fade to background noise.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin. These people may be killers and criminals, but so is the man I'm about to marry. The difference is, my monster protects what's his.
And I am his. By choice.
Gregor releases me at the end of the aisle, and I walk the final steps alone. Ruslan's hands reach for mine, warm and solid against my trembling fingers. He gives them the lightest squeeze. Reassurance, promise, and determination all conveyed in that simple gesture.
The ghost of a smile touches his lips, private and genuine.
We turn to face the priest together, our hands still linked as the crowns are raised above our heads by two solemn-faced men. Against the weight of so many watchful eyes, Ruslan's presence beside me feels like a shield.
The priest gestures toward the ornate Bible on the lectern. I place my hand on the ancient leather binding, and Ruslan's larger hand covers mine. His touch radiates security.
The ceremony begins in flowing Russian, the priest's deep voice carrying across the garden. I don't understand the words, but I understand their weight.
This is happening. This is real.
All around us sit men who've ordered executions over breakfast, who've built empires on blood and suffering. Men who view women as commodities to be traded, used, and discarded.
And yet, with Ruslan's hand over mine, I feel strangely calm. Protected.
When he shifts slightly to stand closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine, I sense it's not just for show. There's possessiveness in the way he positions himself, like he's telling everyone present: She is under my protection now. Touch her, and you die.
In this world of predators, I've chosen the apex predator as my mate.
And somehow, in the midst of all this danger and uncertainty, that knowledge brings me comfort.
The priest finishes his recitation, and the crowns, heavy and ornate, are placed upon our heads.
The weight is immediate and startling, pressing down on me with unexpected force. It takes everything in me not to flinch, not to reach up and adjust it.
Ruslan wears his crown like he was born for it, the gold complementing his eyes. While I'm struggling not to buckle, he looks regal. Powerful.
The rings come next, carried on a small velvet pillow. I reach for the larger one meant for Ruslan's finger, but my hands are trembling so badly that the band nearly slips from my grasp. I fumble, catching it just before it falls.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Great job, Aurora. Drop the ring in front of every pakhan in California. Really selling this whole "I belong here" act.
Ruslan's lips quirk into that small, private smile I'm coming to treasure.
"Careful now, zarechka, " he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.
Despite everything from the watching crowd, the terrifying stakes, and the weight of the crown threatening to give me a migraine, I find myself smiling back.
What am I doing? Marrying a man I've known for weeks? Pledging my life to a criminal empire?
Yet when Ruslan takes my hand and slides his ring onto my finger, the metal cool against my skin, something settles inside me. His touch is gentle but sure, his eyes never leaving mine as he completes this ritual.
I repeat the gesture with significantly shakier hands, pushing the ring onto his tattooed finger. The bird with broken wings disappears beneath the gold band, a symbol of his past covered by his future.
You're his now. Protected and safe.
And together, you will keep his nieces safe too.
When our fingers intertwine, I feel that same electric current that's been there since he first helped me gather scattered script pages in that alley. It doesn't matter if this marriage started as a strategic move. The way he's looking at me now feels anything but strategic.
The priest says something in Russian, and even I can tell it means the end of the ceremony. His hands spread wide and gestures between us.
Ruslan turns to me, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals my breath. The crown shifts slightly as he moves, but he pays it no mind. His strong, tattooed hands that have touched me with such tenderness cup my face like I'm something precious.
And then his lips are on mine.
Every atom in my body recognizes this moment for what it is. A point of no return. My heart pounds against my ribs with such force I'm certain everyone can hear it.
I'm married. To Ruslan Dragunov. Pakhan of the Dragunov Bratva. A man of power and violence and danger.
A man whose hands won't hesitate to kill.
But who kills to keep me safe.
Who touches me like I'm the most precious thing in the world.
His lips move against mine with a possessiveness that makes my knees weak. There's something in this kiss. A promise and a claiming. It transcends our original arrangement.
This doesn't feel like strategy anymore.
The sound of the crowd fades away until all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and all I can feel is Ruslan. His warmth, his strength, and his silent vow of protection conveyed through the pressure of his mouth against mine.
Somehow, in this moment, with his hands holding me steady and his lips pressed against mine, I don't regret it.
Not one bit.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and dizzy. Ruslan's eyes hold mine, and I see the same realization reflected there.
Whatever this started as, it's become something neither of us expected.
The weight of the crown on my head is nothing compared to the weight of what we've just done.
We've declared war on Semyon.
We've set events in motion that can't be undone.
Yet despite the danger swirling around us like sharks in bloodied water, I've never felt more certain of anything in my life.