Chapter 6
Anya
Every little girl dreams of their wedding day. Standing next to a man she loves, feeling like a princess. My dreams were never super-specific, but the feeling was clear.
Love.
That’s what I was meant to be feeling. Not whatever this was. Fear? Dread? Nerves? Anger?
All of those things and more.
But, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t look like this was the worst day of my life.
Far from it. I looked good. Mostly, it was the dress.
Simple ivory silk, nothing fussy or over the top.
Clean lines that whispered romance instead of screaming ‘look at me!’.
For three seconds—I counted them—I looked like a bride who'd chosen this.
Like a woman who wanted to marry Ivan Volkov.
The church’s bridal suite screamed ‘last-minute conversion.’ It was probably a converted office whose walls had been painted cream.
Cheap garlands of fabric flower-petals hung from the ceiling, trying to camouflage how tired and unromantic the space was.
A full-length mirror with a gilt frame that didn't quite hide the mounting brackets underneath reflected me back. There was the faint smell of mothballs.
Nope. This was not how I pictured my wedding morning.
“You can do this,” I whispered to myself. “You can get through this. Keep surviving.”
I almost made myself believe. Then the door opened without a knock, and my father walked in.
Viktor Morozov closed the door behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a cell door locking. His pale blue eyes—my eyes—scanned me from head to toe. Assessing. Calculating.
"Simple," he said finally. The word carried disappointment like a weight. "Too simple. I expected you'd choose something more . . . impressive. The Volkovs will think I gave them damaged goods."
My fingernails found my palms. Four crescents of pain. Sharp enough to ground me.
"Ivan chose it," I lied.
The words came out steady. Practice made perfect. Twenty-six years of lying to my father about what I thought, what I felt, what I wanted. This was just one more performance.
His eyebrow lifted slightly. "Did he?"
"Yes." I kept my gaze on my reflection, not on him. Easier to lie when I wasn't looking directly into eyes that could read me like one of my encrypted files. "He said it suited me."
"Hmm." Viktor moved closer, and I watched him approach in the mirror. Predator closing on prey. "I suppose that's something. If he's already making decisions about your appearance, he's establishing ownership. Good."
Ownership. The word sat in the air between us like smoke.
He stopped directly behind me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Suffocating. His hands came up to adjust my veil—the simple tulle that matched the simple dress—and his fingers were rough against my hair.
"You look acceptable," he said, arranging the fabric with movements that were almost violent in their precision.
Tugging here. Smoothing there. Each touch a reminder that my body belonged to him until the moment it was transferred to Ivan.
"Modest. Appropriate for a virgin bride. Though that won't last much longer."
My breath caught.
"Remember what I said in the car," Viktor continued, his voice conversational. Pleasant, even. Like we were discussing the weather. "This marriage must be consummated tonight. The treaty requires proof."
Proof. My mind immediately went to the historical precedent. Bloodied sheets displayed for witnesses. Medical examination. Some barbaric tradition that powerful families still observed because tradition mattered more than humanity.
"If you fail—" he started.
"I won't," I interrupted. The words scraped my throat raw.
His hands stilled on my veil. In the mirror, I saw his expression shift. Something almost like pleasure at my interruption. Like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for an excuse.
"You won't?" He turned me to face him, hands gripping my shoulders through the silk. "You won't what, Anya? Won't fail? Won't embarrass me? Won't prove to be the defective, broken thing I've always known you were?"
Each word was a slap. Precise. Aimed to wound.
"I'll—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, forced it steady. "I'll do what the treaty requires."
"Good." His grip tightened until I felt bruises forming. "Because if you fail, if Ivan Volkov sends you back to me untouched, if the marriage isn't consummated and verified, remember, I will kill you myself."
My knees wanted to give out. My body wanted to collapse, to fold in on itself, to make myself so small he couldn't see me anymore. But I locked my legs, forced myself to stand straight, met his pale blue eyes with my own.
"I understand," I whispered.
"Good girl." He released me abruptly, and I stumbled slightly, caught myself on the edge of the settee. "Now fix your face. You look like you've been crying, and we can't have that. Brides should look happy."
He moved toward the door, straightened his jacket, checked his reflection one final time. Satisfied with what he saw.
"I'll see you at the altar," he said, his hand on the doorknob. Then, over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought: "And Anya? I love you, detka. This is all for your own good. You'll thank me someday."
The door closed behind him with that same soft click.
My hands shook as I moved to the bathroom, found tissues, dabbed at my face.
The stranger in the mirror looked back at me with red-rimmed eyes and smudged mascara.
I fixed it mechanically. Foundation to hide the finger marks on my chin.
Powder to cover the tear tracks. Fresh mascara to replace what had run.
The bride in the mirror smiled. Practiced. Perfect. Empty.
Gold everywhere. Icons catching candlelight and throwing it back like captured stars.
Incense so thick I could taste it on my tongue—myrrh and frankincense so intense they made my head swim.
The Orthodox church was beautiful in the way museums were beautiful.
Meant to be looked at, not touched. Holy in a way that had nothing to do with God and everything to do with power.
I stood at the back of the church with my father's hand clamped around my elbow. Claiming me one last time before the transfer was complete.
The church was packed. I counted bodies automatically—one hundred and forty-three people witnessing this transaction.
Volkovs on the left side, seventy-one of them filling the pews in expensive suits that couldn't quite hide the weapons underneath.
Morozovs on the right, seventy-two including my father and me.
The division was absolute. A line drawn down the center aisle that might as well have been a border between countries.
Everyone was armed. I could see it in the way they sat—too careful, too aware of the bulges under their jackets. Holy ground meant nothing when you were negotiating peace between criminal organizations. The guns were insurance. Mutually assured destruction dressed up in three-piece suits.
The organist began. Some traditional Russian hymn that probably meant something to someone. To me it was just noise. Just the signal that my execution was beginning.
"Smile," my father murmured, his grip tightening on my elbow. "You're a bride, not a prisoner."
I smiled. Let it reach my eyes the way I'd practiced. The stranger in the mirror from the bridal suite had followed me here, wearing my skin, performing my life.
We started walking. I counted steps to keep from running.
One. Two. Three. The ivory silk whispered against my legs with each movement.
Four. Five. Six. Faces turned to watch us pass.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Alexei Volkov in the front pew with his woman beside him.
Her names was Clara, Ivan had said, and she was pretty—her forest-green dress a splash of color against the sea of black suits.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Dmitry on the other side of the aisle, his scarred face impassive, His own woman—Eva—tucked against his side in lavender.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
Ivan waited at the altar in a black suit that made him look like he was attending a funeral instead of a wedding. Maybe he was. Maybe we both were. Burying whoever we'd been before this treaty required us to become husband and wife.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
His gray eyes found mine across the remaining distance, and something passed between us. Recognition, maybe. Or shared understanding that we were both trapped in this performance. That neither of us had chosen this but we'd survive it anyway because survival was what we did.
Nineteen.
My father released my elbow, placed my hand in Ivan's with ceremonial precision. "Take care of her," he said, loud enough for the front rows to hear. Playing the devoted father. "She's precious to me."
Liar. But Ivan nodded solemnly, accepted the fiction, closed his fingers around mine with surprising gentleness.
Then my father stepped back, and I was alone with Ivan at an altar covered in gold and white roses.
The priest began in Church Slavonic. Old Russian. The language of tsars and Orthodox tradition. My mind translated automatically—"Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit"—but the words flowed over me like water. Meaningless. Just sounds.
"Anya," Ivan whispered. Just my name. Quiet enough that only I could hear.
I focused on him. On the present.
The priest was asking questions. Whether we came to this marriage freely.
Whether we would honor each other. Whether we understood the sanctity of the bonds we were forming.
Ivan answered in Russian, his voice steady and clear.
I heard myself answer too, the stranger wearing my skin performing her lines perfectly.
Then the priest produced a silk cord. White, embroidered with gold thread. Beautiful.
He bound our hands together—Ivan's right to my left—wrapping the cord around our wrists three times. Each loop felt like a chain. Each knot felt permanent.