Chapter 58 Natasha
NATASHA
November
The day I left Bieldside, my heart tore in half.
I gave the other half to a girl I’d called sister on so many occasions when she moved in with us.
We’d trick Vassilievich into sneaking us sweet pavlova before our stomachs settled from dinner.
I know we were only inseparable that year.
But the Mikhailovs’ involvement these last months had been hell.
Now, as I handed her a leather portfolio, a gift, she clutched it tight and clung to me while my insides twisted.
“I didn’t know you’d come,” I said, dabbing at my eyes. I hoped my mascara stayed put instead of redesigning my custom white Oscar de la Renta gown with dark flecks.
“Miss your wedding? Nyet. Also, I’d not expected to receive pictures of …”—she smirked, leafing through the images—“fuzzy people. I will guard them with my life.”
“Hah,” I laughed, suspecting she understood the sentiment behind these images. “When you moved back home, I went through film. Screwed up a lot. But I couldn’t get rid of these bad photos. It’s the thought that counts.”
“I wouldn’t call it bad. I was …” Simona scratched her jaw. “What you’d call kidding. These are lovely.”
We stared at old, blurry shots—mostly crooked Polaroids from when she first moved in with us. I hadn’t been a pro back then. But after she left a few months ago, I kept collecting every old candid I could find. Chasing that feeling that even cousins could have.
Sisterhood. I swiped another tear.
“Chyort!” She swatted me with the portfolio I just handed her. “I don’t want to wrinkle your wedding dress. And my beautiful makeup on either of us.”
We hadn’t seen each other in months. Not since Scotland.
She’d gone to Russia, relegated to a lonely, colossal apartment Rurik owned in Moscow, and the Mikhailovs’ most trusted lieutenants protected her.
Fortunately, her fiancé allowed Baran to accompany her, and he stood near, regarding her as a daughter.
Lip curled, she glanced around the Dodgers’ clubhouse. “Here? You are getting married here?”
“You should’ve seen where Lach and I first exchanged vows.”
“Where?” Momma placed a hand on her hip. “What are you talking about?”
Across the room, Jordyn winked. Though she had just begun a series of appointments with the best baby-making specialist in the world, the diva was all smiles. Maybe she was already pregnant?
Momma cleared her voice again.
“Kidding, Momma, dang.” I played it off with a laugh.
“Well, you’ll have another wedding to attend soon, Aunt Zariah. Oh, and Lev sent a gift. My soon-to-be father-in-law loves giving gifts and telling others about said gifts, yet he couldn’t come. And Rurik doesn’t associate with commoners, so he’ll meet us at The Red Door later.”
I stared at Simona. When had she ever shared information without pulling teeth?
Here she stood, a silk dress draped off one shoulder, the royal blue color complementing her skin tone, going through the motions.
“Don’t give me that look, Natasha. Uncle Vassili’s vow to support Lev’s presidency was included in your expunged contract with Edik. ”
My head shook at the situation. No one cared about my and Edik’s personal arrangement to never marry each other.
They only cared that they’d rule Russia, I guess.
Bad for Simona, but lucky for me. I got to experience my happily ever after in front of almost a hundred thousand people, during the World Series’ seventh-inning stretch.
I shot Baran a look of compassion—dude was still in mourning.
I whispered, “Jake asked if you want to start an SS Robinson book club.” My eyes met hers, drawn to a love story concealed in her impassive, dark eyes.
Dang. She was showing emotion all right.
Happiness for my day? “Sima, what happened between you? His girlfriend—”
An attendant entered the door. “It’s time.”
With the length of halftime, I’d better marry this man—again—before Momma lost it.
She’d had something to say about everything since we returned.
Us moving in together. The house shopping and the gorgeous homes, I continued to pass on—since Simona wasn’t living her life.
Not like me. Hell, even I knew Pop’s possessive behind didn’t wait for them to marry. But that was mothers.
Now, as I started toward the dugout, a soft evening glow flooded through the darkened area while Vassilievich took my hand.
The cheers of thousands reached me. Weakened my knees.
The crowd rose in a wave of blue and white, but all I heard was my own deep breathing and the steady click of my heels as I exited the dugout.
Sunset painted the sky in warm streaks of turquoise and fire, glowing behind the stands. My brother’s arm steadied me, strong but trembling, since he knew how shame once haunted me.
Though his presence helped, I murmured, “Tell me why Mia MacKenzie cut her eyes at you during our bridal shower.” Yep, deflection tactics are still strong.
“Shhh,” Vassilievich groaned, “millions of people are staring.”
Thanks, Boobie. Besides, he was himself again.
Not the Russian kind of usual—no brooding, no plotting murder over tea.
Just happy I got my revenge. Which, now that I considered it, was very Russian.
Finding my father’s gaze near the edge of the field, I murmured, “Relax. They can’t see my lips from here. ”
“Jumbotron.”
“Ugh, thanks, Boobie,” I muttered aloud, eyes flicking up to the massive screen.
“You’re welcome, Cutie Pie.” He kissed my cheek, then whispered, “You deserve this, Tasha. Stop being shy. Also, no more conversations, they’re supposed to turn on your mic when you reach Lach.”
Stopping myself from biting my lip, I instead nodded. The weight of satin and lace tugged my shoulders, but it was nothing compared to the invisible weight I’d carried for years. The shame. The self-hatred that nearly smothered me.
Now, I glanced up at my father and cherished his parts. All of me was unique, and Momma didn’t birth me by herself. His dark eyes softened as he pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“Are you ready, dochka?” Pops murmured, his voice thick with Russian pride and a sorrow I suppose he found because love had changed him when he met Momma.
“Uhhh …” My eyes flicked to the ocean of faces in the stadium seats. Tash, stop. You’re already married. But … so many eyes. So, so many eyes.
About twenty yards away, Lachlan stood in the center of the field, waiting for me like he’d been waiting his whole life.
He wore a Dodger-blue suit—like he couldn’t help but wear the colors of his blood—perfectly cut to his broad shoulders and lean waist. A crisp white-linen shirt unbuttoned at the top to display the tanned muscle wall of his chest. Jordyn and Simona flanked one side in the same blue chiffon dresses.
Montana and Jamie stood on his opposite side.
My heart sputtered. I needed to get to him. Get over how many eyes were on us.
Once we stepped closer, Pop lowered his face, his eyes pinning me.
“Your beauty comes from your mother, but your spine of steel comes from your father,” he said, pressing his large hand firm and protective against my back.
The touch straightened my shoulders, and a sigh jittered out of me.
Nerves cracked loose like ice in Moscow during spring.
“Luchshe?” he asked in Russian.
“Da, better.”
He gave a sharp nod, then placed my hand into Lachlan’s, whispering words only for us. “Lachlan, lyubi yeye. Zashchishchay yeye. Love her. Protect her.” His gaze burned, not just a command, but an acknowledgment of the past—the things I had survived, the battles Lachlan had already fought for me.
But they all faded because Lachlan stared at me like he’d been waiting for me to arrive his entire life. His usual rebellious hair tossed in the soft evening wind. And those eyes—clear, blazing, like the floodlights of the whole stadium had bent just to live in them.
Those gorgeous eyes saw past the walls I built, past the tidy fictions I’d spun to make Adrian Chelomey the villain for every hurt I’d endured when Enzo carved the deepest wounds.
Those eyes saw past the scars I thought no man would want to look at.
But now they found me, the corners crinkled as his mouth tugged into a smile meant for only me.
The roar of the crowd dulled into a distant hum as I smiled up at him. My veil whispered against his suit jacket in the wind. His hand enclosed mine—soft, familiar. The hand I held when I shared the reason behind my night terrors and fear tried to steal my voice.
We had become each other’s shelter. Each other’s pulse after I was the strength he’d needed too, when I’d awoken after Lorenzo drugged me.
We made each other stronger. And standing before the officiant, I knew with a certainty deeper than oxygen, we were forged to endure—together. MacKenzie and Resnov, family forever.