Matilda
The last hour passes in a blur of faces and champagne I barely taste.
I'm married.
Gennady's men approach in a steady stream.
Each one offers congratulations with varying degrees of warmth.
Stefan is gruff but seems genuine. Vasily is formal, correct, but something in his eyes suggests he's reserving judgment.
Others whose names I don't catch blur together in a parade of dark suits and careful smiles.
"To the Pakhan and his bride," Vasily says, raising his champagne glass. His voice carries across the orangery. "May your union bring strength to this family and protection to those who stand with you."
It's more warning than blessing, I realize. A reminder to everyone here that I'm under Gennady's protection now. That touching me means answering to him.
Glasses clink. People drink. I bring my champagne to my lips but barely feel the bubbles past the dryness in my mouth.
Gennady's thumb strokes small circles at my waist, and I don't know if he's trying to soothe me or claim me or both.
Probably both.
Mila appears at my side, her face glowing despite the bruise that's still slightly visible under her makeup. "You're doing great," she whispers. "Just smile and nod. They'll be gone soon."
"How soon?" I ask, trying not to sound desperate.
"Very soon, if I know my brother." She grins. "He's not exactly known for his patience."
As if summoned by her words, Gennady leans down, his mouth near my ear. "Ten more minutes."
Ten minutes until what, exactly? Until everyone leaves and we're alone and I have to face what comes next?
My stomach flips.
Judge Varney approaches, leather folder in hand. "Just need signatures here and here," he says, pointing to lines on official-looking documents.
Gennady signs first, his handwriting bold and assured. Then he hands me the pen.
I stare at the line where my name should go. Matilda Petrova. Not Lazovskia anymore. Never Lazovskia again.
My hand trembles slightly as I sign, but the letters come out clear enough.
"Congratulations," the judge says, already backing away like he can't leave fast enough. "The marriage is legally binding as of right now."
He practically flees toward the exit. I watch him go and feel the walls closing in.
Legally binding.
No take-backs. No do-overs. I'm married to Gennady Petrov, and somewhere in the back of my mind, panic is starting to claw its way forward.
"Breathe," Gennady says quietly, his hand sliding up to rest between my shoulder blades.
I realize I've been holding my breath.
"I'm fine," I lie.
"You're scared." His voice isn't unkind. "It’s normal to be nervous, but you don’t have to be afraid. Not of me."
I look up at him, searching his face for any sign that he's having second thoughts. That he's realized what a mistake this is. But all I see is certainty, solid and immovable.
More people approach. More congratulations. More glasses raised in toasts that all sound vaguely threatening even when they're meant to be kind.
I smile until my face hurts. Nod until my neck aches. And through it all, Gennady keeps me anchored to his side, his presence the only constant in a room full of strangers.
Finally, finally, people start to leave.
Vasily clasps Gennady's shoulder. "Take care of her, boss."
"Always," Gennady replies, and something in his tone makes Vasily nod with satisfaction.
Stefan lingers near the door, clearly waiting for some kind of instruction. Gennady catches his eye and gestures him over.
"Take the rest of the day off," Gennady says. "All of you. Staff included. I want the house empty."
Stefan's eyebrows rise fractionally. "Empty?"
"Except for my wife and me." Gennady's arm tightens around my waist. "Take Mila out. Dinner, dancing, whatever she wants. My credit card. Don't come back until tomorrow morning. And for god’s sake, don’t let her pick up any more red flags."
Understanding dawns on Stefan's face. "Understood."
He turns to leave, but Gennady's voice stops him.
"Stefan? Thank you. For helping to make this happen."
Stefan's expression softens just slightly. "Anytime, Boss."
Then he's gone, and Mila is saying goodbye with a cheeky wink and a wicked laugh that makes heat flood my face.
Within minutes, the orangery is empty except for us.
Silence settles, heavy and expectant.
I'm alone with my husband.
"Come on," Gennady says, taking my hand. "Let's go upstairs."
My feet move automatically, following him through the house that is eerily quiet after the busy morning of setting up an entire wedding. We reach the bedroom I stayed in last night.
"Wait," I say, "Is this your room?"
Gennady turns to look at me, and something in his expression confirms what I'm thinking. "Yes."
"Where did you sleep?"
"I didn’t, not really. I sat in my office." He steps inside, tugging me gently with him. "I wasn't going to put you in a guest room, Matilda. You were never a guest."
The implication settles over me like a physical weight.
He knew. Even then, even when I was just some girl he'd dragged from her family home, he knew he was going to make me his.
The room looks different in the afternoon light. Still masculine and sparse, but the bed is freshly made with dark sheets that look expensive and soft.
Gennady closes the door behind us, and the soft click of the lock feels impossibly loud.
We're alone. Truly alone. Together. Just us.
And suddenly I'm acutely aware of every detail. The way the dress feels against my skin. The way his eyes track my every movement. The way my heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Matilda." His voice is rougher than usual. "Come here."
I take two steps toward him, then stop. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"I know."
"I've never..." I trail off, heat flooding my face.
"I know that too." His hands coming up to frame my face. "And I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to make sure your first time is everything it should be."
His thumb brushes my lower lip, and goosebumps erupt over my arms.
"But first," he continues, voice dropping lower, "I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"Once this happens, you're mine. Completely. In every possible way." His eyes search mine. "No going back. No regrets. No second-guessing. You'll be mine, and I'll be yours, and that's how it stays until the end of time."
The possessiveness in his voice sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay?" His hands slide from my face down to my shoulders. "That's all you have to say?"
"I don't know what else to say." I look up at him, feeling vulnerable and exposed and terrified and excited all at once. "I've never done this before. I don't know how to be... this."
"You don't need to know." His hands move to the buttons at the back of my dress. "You just need to trust me."
"I do," I say, and realize I mean it.
I do trust him. This man who killed my brother and married me within twenty-four hours of meeting me. This man who looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth having.
I trust him.
"Turn around," he murmurs.
I turn, and he releases the buttons one by one and eases the dress down. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me standing in just my underwear, simple white lace that Marie got for me, a matching set that suddenly feels far too revealing.
I fight the urge to cover myself.
His hands settle on my waist from behind, warm and sure. "You're beautiful," he says dropping a kiss on my shoulder. "Perfect."
I don't feel perfect. I feel exposed and nervous and completely out of my depth.
But then his mouth finds the curve where shoulder meets my neck, and thought becomes impossible.