Chapter 6 Victoria #2
I lift my eyes and see them at the end of the aisle.
Maksim. Zakhar. Both in dark suits that make power look inevitable and menace look elegant.
Maksim stands at the altar, hands clasped in front of him, blonde hair catching the light like fire.
Even from this distance, I can see the intensity in those ice-blue eyes, the controlled stillness that defines him.
He looks every inch the Pakhan. Authority wrapped in civility, violence dressed in silk.
Beside him, Zakhar watches with that same focused attention I remember from the restaurant. Taller, broader, built like consequences given human form. His green eyes track my movement with predator patience, steady, absolute, missing nothing.
They're both impossibly attractive. Both utterly terrifying.
And they're both watching me like I'm the only person in this room.
The realization makes my pulse stutter, heat unfurling low in my spine.
Alexei walks me down the aisle with steady confidence, his hand warm over mine where it rests on his arm. The distance feels infinite and too short at once. Each step brings me closer to the altar, to Maksim, to the moment this stops being theoretical and becomes binding.
When we reach the officiant, Alexei leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek.
"You're beautiful, kotyonok," he murmurs against my skin.
Then he's gone, taking his place behind Zakhar, and I'm alone with Maksim.
He reaches for my hand.
His palm is warm, dry, and I feel scars beneath my fingertips. Raised lines across his knuckles, old violence written into flesh. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, pooling in my chest, between my thighs.
I should recoil. I always recoil when men touch me uninvited. It's instinct, self-preservation, the legacy of trauma I've carried since I was twelve.
But with Maksim, there's no recoil.
Just want. Clean and sharp and utterly bewildering.
The same thing happened with Alexei, I realize with sudden, terrifying clarity. He touched me, kissed my cheek, and I felt safe. Not threatened. Not violated.
Safe.
The officiant is speaking. Words about love and commitment and forever, the standard ceremony script delivered with practiced warmth. I hear them from a distance, like they're meant for someone else's wedding.
"Victoria Ainsley," the officiant says, and my name snaps me back to the present. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I clear my throat. Force the words past the tightness constricting my ribs. "I do."
"Maksim Severyn," the officiant continues, "do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Maksim's gaze holds mine, intense and unwavering. "I do."
The words feel less like ceremony and more like contract—binding, irreversible, real in ways I didn't anticipate.
"You may kiss your bride."
My pulse spikes. Sharp. Immediate.
Up until now, I've been fine with his touch. But a kiss might be too much.
Maksim leans in, his mouth hovering just above mine. Close enough that I can feel his breath, smell his cologne.
"You okay with this?" His voice is low, meant only for me.
The question cracks something open in my chest. He's asking. Actually asking. Giving me choice even in this performance.
I manage a nod.
Then Maksim is kissing me.
His lips are warm, firm, commanding in a way that should terrify me but doesn't. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, angling my face, and I let him. Let him deepen the kiss, let his tongue trace the seam of my lips until they part.
The world narrows to this. His mouth on mine, his hand on my face, the taste of him flooding my senses. It's overwhelming. All-consuming. My first real kiss with a man, and it's devastatingly perfect and absolutely not real.
But my body doesn't know that. My body responds like this matters, like this means something, heat and want and need tangling together until I can't tell them apart.
The audience erupts into applause. The sound crashes over us, breaking the spell.
Maksim pulls back slowly, deliberately. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone in a gesture that feels too tender for what this is supposed to be.
"Perfect," he murmurs.
People surge forward after that. Congratulations spilling between glasses of champagne and air-kisses that never quite land. Maksim's hand stays on the small of my back, warm and possessive, guiding me through the crowd as we move toward the reception area.
The live band is already playing something upbeat and elegant that makes people sway as they walk.
The reception space is even more beautiful than the ceremony.
Long tables draped in ivory linens, centerpieces of white roses and flickering candles, the lake visible through massive windows that frame the city skyline turning gold in the fading light.
Maksim and I move through the room together, and I do what I was bought to do.
I introduce him to Chicago's elite. Aldermen and philanthropists, CEOs and society matrons.
I watch them assess him, recalculate their opinions, decide that maybe the Severyn name isn't as dangerous as they thought.
I'm good at this. I've been trained for this my entire life, how to smile, how to charm, how to make people believe whatever story you're selling.
The band shifts into something slower. Nostalgic. A Russian melody I researched specifically for this moment.
Maksim stops mid-conversation with a tech CEO. Turns to look at me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"I asked around," I say quickly, suddenly nervous. "About what music to request for the Russian guests. They suggested this one. Is it—is it okay?"
Understanding flickers across his face. Then genuine, unguarded warmth. "It's more than okay."
We're sharing a moment. Something real and unscripted in the middle of this elaborate performance.
Then Alexei bursts through the crowd like chaos on a mission, grabbing Maksim by the arm with unrestrained enthusiasm.
"They're playing our music, brat! We have to go cheer for the band!"
Maksim looks at me, question in his eyes.
I shrug, managing a smile that feels almost real. "Go. I could use a break from all the schmoozing."
He nods once, and then both men disappear into the crowd, leaving me alone in a sea of strangers wearing expensive clothes and false smiles.
I need air. Space. A moment to collect myself from the emotional whiplash this day has become.
I slip away from the reception, following a hallway that leads deeper into the building. The noise of laughter, music, the clink of crystal are replaced by the sound of my heels clicking on marble, the distant wash of lake waves against the shore.
Silence wraps around me like relief.
A hand grabs my arm. Hard enough to bruise.
I spin, and my father is there.
He's wearing a knee brace and leaning on crutches, and his eyes are glassy with too much champagne and too little sense. His fingers dig painfully into my bicep, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
"Are you happy with yourself?" The words come out slurred, furious. "Now that you have attack dogs doing whatever you ask? That psychopath broke my knee. My knee. And I know you're behind it."
For a moment, I'm speechless.
The audacity. The sheer fucking audacity of this man to stand here and play victim when he's the one who sold me to pay his debts.
But underneath the fury, something else rises. Something unexpected and pure and brilliant.
Joy.
Visceral, undeniable joy at the knowledge that Alexei personally made sure my father couldn't walk me down the aisle. That someone heard me and believed me and decided my father didn't deserve the privilege.
The joy bubbles up faster than I can control it.
I start to laugh.
It starts as a smile, sharp at the edges. Then a chuckle. Then genuine laughter that I can't quite contain, born from relief and vindication and the absurdity of this entire situation.
My father's face turns red. Fury twisting his features into something ugly.
He raises his hand.
Another hand catches his wrist mid-swing. Twists until I hear bones crack like kindling.
Zakhar.
Zakhar is here. Silent, fast, utterly lethal. His grip on my father's hand is brutal and efficient. Arthur cries out, tries to pull away, but Zakhar doesn't release him.
"Unless you want more bones broken," Zakhar says, voice low and calm as winter, "and by my count you still have about two hundred extra, you'll leave immediately." He leans closer, and his next words are a promise wrapped in menace. "And you'll never contact Victoria again. She's ours now."
My father staggers back when Zakhar finally releases him, cradling his injured hand against his chest. Fear and fury war across his face, but fear wins decisively.
He turns and hobbles away on his crutches, muttering curses under his breath that fade into nothing.
Zakhar turns to me. His green eyes scan my face, my arms, assessing damage with practiced efficiency.
"You okay?"
I should be alarmed. Should be terrified by the casual violence, by the proprietary claim in Zakhar's words. She's ours now. Like I'm property. Like I belong to them.
But alarm isn't what I feel.
I feel safe.
Safer than I've felt in years. Maybe ever.
Protected. Claimed. Defended.
And that's the real danger.