12. Yaromir
YAROMIR
I marry Anya Sokolova three days later in the garden behind my house.
Not the main garden. Not the one guests see when they arrive, with its trimmed hedges and stone fountain and the old statues my mother once hated because she said they looked like dead men pretending to be saints.
The ceremony happens in the smaller courtyard near the east wing, where the trees grow close to the walls and the morning light falls in narrow strips over the stone path.
It’s quiet there. Exactly what I want.
There are twelve people present.
Viktor stands near the gate with two of my men.
Alexei stands beside me, wearing a dark suit and an expression he keeps trying to make serious.
The lawyer waits near the officiant with the documents.
Anya’s father stands on the other side of the courtyard, pale and stiff, looking like a man who knows he has survived by spending the last of his daughter’s trust.
Anya doesn’t look at him once.
She stands across from me in a simple ivory dress that was delivered to the house yesterday. No long train. No veil. No flowers sewn into her hair. Nothing like the spectacle Dmitri would have had her walk into.
Still, she looks more like a bride than she did in the leaked wedding photographs I saw from his estate.
Maybe because this time she’s not pretending.
Her hair is pinned low, a few loose strands framing her face. A faint bruise is still visible near her wrist, half-hidden beneath the sleeve. She holds her hands together in front of her, fingers locked so tightly her knuckles are pale.
She’s nervous. Angry too.
The officiant speaks. I hear the words, but only in pieces.
Marriage.
Witnesses.
Duty.
Consent.
Anya’s eyes lift to mine when that last word is spoken.
For a moment, the courtyard seems to hold its breath with us.
The night before, the lawyer read every line of the contract to her twice. When she signed, her hand did not shake.
Now she stands before me with a ring in her palm.
Not my mother’s ring. I haven’t seen it since she arrived at my home, and I don’t feel like asking her. The ring I give her now is new. Platinum, plain except for a narrow line of small diamonds set into the band. Expensive, but not loud. It suits her better than the old one.
It doesn’t carry another woman’s ghost.
When I slide it onto her finger, her breath catches quietly. I feel it more than hear it. Her hand is cold. I close my fingers around hers for half a second longer than necessary. She notices, and her eyes narrow.
Alexei coughs behind me, badly hiding a laugh.
I ignore him.
Then it’s her turn.
She takes my ring from the small velvet tray. A simple band. Heavy. Blackened gold. Her fingers brush mine as she pushes it over my knuckle.
A small touch. Nothing. Still, the knowledge moves through me with dangerous force.
Wife.
My wife.
It comes with satisfaction. Savage. Immediate. Deep in the blood.
Dmitri lost her. And now she stands in my garden, wearing my ring, bound to my name by choice.
Mine.
The officiant finishes the final words. “You may kiss the bride.”
Anya stills. Only slightly. Most people would miss it.
I don’t.
I step closer. Her chin lifts as if she’s bracing for battle instead of a kiss. There are witnesses. Men watching. Her father breathing too loudly somewhere to the left. Alexei standing close enough to enjoy this more than he should.
I could make a point. I could kiss her in a way that leaves no one confused about what this marriage means. Instead, I take her face lightly in one hand and lower my mouth to hers.
The kiss is chaste. Brief. Controlled.
It should be nothing.
It is not nothing.
Her lips are soft, still for the first second, then just barely responsive before I step back. She inhales as if she forgot to breathe. Her eyes open slowly, and for one moment, I see the same look from my study.
Anger. Hunger. Confusion.
Then she hides it.
My wife learns quickly.
“Congratulations,” Alexei says, stepping forward before the silence can stretch. His grin is too wide. “A touching ceremony. Very romantic. No one was shot. I’m proud of all of us.”
Anya looks at him. I can tell she doesn’t know whether to be offended or amused.
I do.
“Alexei,” I say.
He straightens slightly. “Yes, Pakhan?”
I give him a look. His grin only widens.
Anya’s gaze flicks to me at the title.
She heard it. Of course she did.
Later, she will ask. Or she will pretend not to care and find out another way.
Viktor approaches next and lowers his head once, first to me, then to her. “Madam.”
She nods back. “Thank you.” Her voice is steady.
Sergei comes last. He steps toward her carefully, like he’s approaching an animal that might bite. “Anya,” he says.
She turns her head, but doesn’t move closer. For a long, uncomfortable second, they stare at each other. Then Sergei lowers his eyes. “You look beautiful.”
Anya’s face doesn’t change. “Is that all?”
His mouth tightens. “I wanted to say congratulations.”
“Then say it.”
He swallows. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
That’s all she gives him.
I should not enjoy watching Sergei suffer.
I do anyway.
When the documents are signed, the guests begin to thin. The officiant leaves first with the lawyer. My men return to their posts. Sergei is escorted to a car after Viktor quietly informs him that his debt has been cleared and that his continued safety depends on his continued good behavior.
Anya watches her father leave through the iron gate. She says nothing. Only when his car disappears does she turn back toward me. “So that’s it?” she asks.
“For the legal part, yes.”
“And the other part?”
I look at her.
Her cheeks color faintly, but she doesn’t look away.
I step closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “The other part begins when you decide you want it to.”
Her breath catches.
Then her expression hardens because she hates that I saw it.
“You’re very pleased with yourself,” she says.
“I just got married.”
“To a woman you barely know.”
“To a woman who keeps surprising me.”
That stops her.
Only for a second.
Then Alexei calls from across the courtyard, “Are we celebrating or standing around looking dangerous all day?”
Anya looks past me toward him. “Is he always like this?”
“Worse when encouraged.”
“I heard that,” Alexei says.
“You were meant to.”
For the first time that morning, Anya almost smiles. It’s gone quickly, but I see it.
We return inside through the east doors, and the house feels different with her in it.
That irritates me. Houses don’t change because a woman walks through them wearing your ring.
And yet, as Anya steps into the hall, I see the place through her eyes.
The dark floors. The portraits. The silence.
The staff waiting at a careful distance.
The weight of a house built by men who didn’t know how to make anything feel safe.
She takes it all in. Then she lifts her chin and keeps walking.
My wife.
We make it halfway across the main hall before I see the woman waiting near the stairs.
I stop.
Anya notices immediately.
So does Alexei.
The woman turns from the portrait she has been examining and smiles as if she has been invited. She’s in her early sixties, tall, elegant, dressed in dark green with pearls at her throat and silver in her black hair. She has the Volkov eyes, unfortunately. Cold when amused, colder when offended.
My aunt, Larisa Vasilova. My mother’s older sister.
She looks from me to Anya, then down to the ring on Anya’s hand. “Well,” she says, one brow lifting. “Looks like I didn’t make the cut for the wedding.”
Alexei mutters, “Oh, this is going to be good.”
I ignore him.
“Aunt Larisa,” I say.
“Yaromir.”
Her gaze returns to Anya, sharp and assessing. Not cruel. Not warm either. “So, this is the bride.”
Anya stands beside me, still in her simple ivory dress, still pale from the ceremony, still carrying more pride than rest. I wait to see if she will shrink under Larisa’s inspection.
She does not.
She steps forward by half a pace and offers her hand. “Anya Volkova.”
Larisa’s expression changes. Just a fraction.
Then she takes Anya’s hand. “Good,” she says. “At least one of you has manners.”
Lunch is served in the smaller dining room because Larisa refuses to eat in the formal one.
“That room was designed by men who thought discomfort proved wealth,” she says, taking the chair at the head of the table as if she has lived in my house for years.
I let her have it.
Anya notices.
She notices everything, even when she pretends not to. She sits to my right, still in the ivory dress, her hair pinned carefully again after the wind in the courtyard loosened a few strands. The ring on her finger catches the light when she reaches for her water.
I look away before Larisa catches me staring.
Too late.
She catches everything too.
For the first few minutes, the meal is quiet. Roasted fish, black bread, potatoes with dill, pickled mushrooms Larisa always complains are never sour enough. Anya eats little but keeps her posture perfect, as if sitting straighter will make the room less unfamiliar.
Larisa watches her over the rim of her wineglass.
“So,” she says, “Anya Volkova.”
Anya’s hand stills for half a second. Then she looks up. “Yes.”
“Do you like the sound of it?”
A rude question.
Anya takes it well. “I’m getting used to it.”
Larisa’s mouth curves. “Better answer than yes.”
Anya doesn’t smile. “Yes would have sounded like a lie.”
That earns my aunt’s attention properly. She sets the glass down. “Good. I dislike women who lie badly.”
“Only women?” Anya asks.
Larisa studies her.
Alexei, seated across from me, hides a grin behind his fork.
“No,” Larisa says. “Men are worse. They lie with more confidence and less imagination.”
Anya glances at me briefly.
I ignore it.
Larisa does not.
“You were meant to marry Dmitri,” she says.
The table changes immediately.
Alexei lowers his fork.
Anya’s face closes, but she doesn’t look down. “Yes.”
“And now you have married Yaromir.”
“That is what happened.”
“Not what happened,” Larisa says. “What you chose.”