Anton
She smiled at me.
Standing at the altar, her hand trembling in mine, pulse racing so hard I could count the beats against my fingers, and she smiled. Soft. Practiced. Like she'd rehearsed it in a mirror until it looked real.
It almost did.
The reception is in a private room at the back of a restaurant my family owns.
White tablecloths. Candles. Crystal glasses filled with champagne everyone's drinking because everyone in this room knows this isn't a party.
It's a performance, and we're all playing our parts.
So we will drink the drinks and eat the food and dance when the music livens.
Kira sits beside me at the head table, straight-backed, hands folded in her lap. She hasn't eaten. She's barely spoken. But every time someone approaches to offer congratulations, she lifts her chin, smiles that same soft smile, and says exactly the right thing.
Thank you.
How kind.
Yes, we're very grateful.
Grateful. For what? For being given to a stranger because the council decided the Orlovs needed to be reminded of their place?
I take a drink. The vodka burns going down, and I welcome it.
Artem is across the room, talking with Richardu Nevolin, Kira's father. They look like two men negotiating a business deal, which is exactly what this is. Artem's shoulders are tight, but his face gives nothing away. He learned that from our father too.
Anastasia catches my eye from three tables over.
My sister raises her glass in my direction; one corner of her mouth lifted in that signature tell of hers.
The gesture could pass for a toast if you didn't know her.
But I do know her, and I can read the apology in her expression.
The anger underneath it. She fought Artem on this.
I heard them through the wall of his study two nights ago.
Screaming at each other until our younger sister, Lina, pulled Anastasia out of the room.
It didn't change anything. Nothing was going to change anything.
"Your sister seems lovely," Kira says quietly beside me.
I glance down at her. She's watching Anastasia with something that looks like longing. Like she sees a version of family she's never been allowed to have.
"She's a pain in my ass," I say.
Kira blinks. Then the corner of her mouth twitches, just barely, before she smooths it away and drops her gaze back to her untouched plate.
Was that almost a real smile?
I don't know why that irritates me.
"Eat something," I tell her. It comes out harder than I intended. Not a suggestion. An order.
She picks up her fork without a word and takes a small bite of the salmon. Chews. Swallows. Sets the fork down again, perfectly aligned with the edge of the plate.
Everything about this woman is perfectly aligned. Every movement measured, every response calibrated. She's been polished to a shine, and I can't find a single crack in the surface.
It makes me want to put one there.
A man approaches the table. Council. I recognize him by the pin on his lapel. Gregor Malekonosh. Mid-fifties, silver-haired, smile like a knife. He's the one who delivered the terms to Artem. Marriage. Consummation. Proof.
"Congratulations," Gregor says, placing a hand on my shoulder. His grip is firm. Deliberate. "A beautiful bride and a beautiful occasion."
"Thank you," I say. The words taste bitter.
Gregor turns his attention to Kira. His eyes move over her the way a man inspects a purchase, and something in my chest tightens.
"Kira Nevolina," he says. "Or should I say Kira Orlova now." He chuckles. "Your father must be very proud."
"He is," Kira says. That smile again. Perfect. Rehearsed. "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Malekonosh."
Gregor leans closer. "The council looks forward to good news," he murmurs. His gaze flicks between us. Lands on Kira's stomach for a fraction of a second. "Soon."
Then he straightens, pats my shoulder like I'm a dog that performed a trick, and walks away.
The fury I've been holding since Artem's study four days ago surges up my spine. My fist tightens under the table. My jaw locks.
Kira's hand settles on my forearm.
I go still.
Her touch is light. Barely there. Her eyes stay forward, her expression unchanged, and anyone watching would think she was simply resting her hand on her husband's arm. A natural gesture. A wifely gesture.
But her thumb presses gently against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point, and holds.
I look at her.
She doesn't look at me. But her thumb stays where it is, steady and warm, and I feel my fist loosen by a fraction.
She felt it. She felt my rage building, and instead of pulling away, she reached for me.
I don't know what to do with that, so I do nothing. I sit beside my bride, her hand on my arm, and I stare straight ahead and try to figure out how this woman I've known for three hours just read me better than anyone has in years.
The reception winds down. People leave in quiet pairs and clusters, the way they always do at Bratva events. No lingering. No drunken speeches. Just handshakes and nods and cars pulling away into the dark.
Artem stops by our table with Elena on his way out. He looks at me, then at Kira, then back at me.
"Take care of her," he says quietly.
It's not a request. But it's not an order either. It's something in between. Something that sounds almost like a plea.
I nod once.
Then it's just us. Me and my wife, sitting at a table covered in untouched food and half-empty glasses, in a room that smells like champagne and obligation.
"We should go," I say.
Kira stands. Smooths her dress. Folds her hands in front of her.
"I'm ready," she says.
And she follows me out into the night without a single question about where we're going.