Chapter 16
Alina
Idon’t know how long I sit on the bed staring at the ring like it might suddenly sprout chains and tie me down. Too long.
I glance at the clock and see that I have half an hour until I have to be ready.
Quickly, I strip off the jeans and shirt, kicking them into a corner with more force than necessary. The white silk dress waits on the hanger like a shroud. I step into it, shivering as the fabric slides over my skin. It settles against my curves, cool and possessive.
Sitting at the vanity, I stare at my reflection.
Alina Saranova. The name tastes like ash and expensive Champagne.
I grab the brush and tackle my hair. I twist the blonde mass up into a severe, elegant knot, exposing the long line of my neck.
If he wants to wrap his fist in it, he’s going to have to take it down himself.
There is too big a part of me that wants that.
The thought of his enormous cock thrusting into me makes me wet.
I wonder if he knows I’m fantasising about him.
He probably assumes I am. His unbelievably arrogant Bratva bitches lined up to screw him comment sits like bile in my throat.
The thought of him riding someone else’s pussy makes my vision blur with jealousy.
One final hairpin secures the severe knot against my scalp.
It pulls tight, a sharp ache that grounds me better than deep breathing ever could.
I check my reflection one last time. The white silk clings to my hips like a second skin, obscenely expensive and deceptively innocent.
There is nothing innocent about the woman staring back.
The five-carat rock on my finger catches the light, a heavy, arrogant promise of violence. If he thinks this marks me as property, he’s in for a shock. It marks me as the one holding the leash.
I slip my feet into the heels. Taking a breath that rattles in my chest, I turn from the mirror. The door opens before I reach it. Dima fills the frame, looking like a hearse in a bespoke suit.
“Time,” he grunts.
“Don’t sound so excited, Dima. It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”
“With Saranovs, the difference is negligible.”
Well, that’s comforting. I step into the corridor, chin high, and walk toward the stairs. The staircase stretches down before me. My heels strike the stone, a sharp staccato rhythm that echoes through the silence of the house. It doesn’t feel like a wedding. It feels like a sacrifice.
Below, the foyer has been stripped of its usual emptiness. Vik stands guard by the door, hand hovering near his jacket, while a priest in vestments shifts uncomfortably near the console table. He looks like he’d rather be performing an exorcism.
Then there is Arkady.
He stands at the base of the stairs, a monolith in a black suit, which fits him with criminal perfection.
He doesn’t look like a groom. He looks like the devil come to collect his due.
His gaze snaps to mine the second I come into view, blue fire burning through the distance between us.
He tracks my movement, his eyes dragging over the white silk, the curve of my hips, the severe knot of my hair.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. It’s hard to tell if he is annoyed or full of desire. With Arkady, the line between rage and lust is so blurred it doesn’t exist.
I reach the bottom step and stop. The air between us crackles, thick with unspoken threats and the ghost of his hands on my skin.
“You’re late,” he says, his voice low and rough.
“You’re lucky I showed up at all.”
His mouth curves, a dangerous slant that sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Careful, krasotka. You’re about to make vows you can’t take back.”
“Neither can you.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Not doubt. Never doubt with this man. Something darker. Hungrier. He extends his hand, palm up, and waits.
I place my fingers in his. The contact sends electricity crackling up my arm, and I hate how my body responds to him. Hate how much I don’t hate it at all.
He leads me toward the priest, who clutches a worn prayer book like it might protect him from whatever unholy union he’s about to sanctify.
“Father Alexei,” Arkady says. “Begin.”
The priest clears his throat and opens the book, but his hands are shaking. Poor bastard. He probably didn’t sign up for this when he took whatever vow priests take.
“Dearly beloved,” he starts, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. There’s nothing beloved about this.
Arkady’s grip on my hand tightens, a silent warning. I swallow the laugh and school my features into something approximating solemnity.
The priest rattles through the opening prayers in a mix of Russian and English, his voice gaining steadiness as he finds his rhythm.
He drones on about holy matrimony, the sanctity of union, the blessings of God upon those who enter into a covenant.
Standard fare, delivered to a room full of killers and the woman foolish enough to bind herself to their king.
“Do you, Arkady Saranov, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“I do.” No hesitation. No tremor. Just two words delivered with the certainty of a death sentence.
The priest turns to me, and I feel the weight of every eye in the room pressing against my skin. Vik. Dima. The priest himself, who looks like he’s praying for divine intervention.
“Do you, Alina Belova, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
The words catch in my throat.
Arkady crushes my fingers, and I glare at him.
It has nothing to do with fear. But this was rushed; I didn’t get much of a chance to be Alina Belova after ditching Ashworth.
Now I’m going to be Saranova, and somewhere along the line, I got lost. The pause stretches too long.
I can feel Arkady’s impatience, but I don’t care.
This is the last moment I have to be just me before I become something else entirely.
“I do,” I say, and the words come out steadier than I expected.
The priest exhales like he’s been holding his breath since we started. “The rings, please.”
Dima steps forward, producing two bands from his pocket. Simple platinum, polished to a mirror shine. Arkady takes the smaller one and slides it onto my finger, nestling it against the outrageous diamond already there. The metal is warm from Dima’s pocket, and it feels like a brand.
I take the larger band and reach for Arkady’s hand. His fingers are long, scarred across the knuckles, ink crawling up past his wrist. I slide the ring into place, with a gulp. I stare at it for a moment too long. It looks too right there. Too good. Like it belongs.
The priest clears his throat. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you—.”
Arkady doesn’t wait for him to finish. His hand cups the back of my neck, fingers brushing the edge of my knot, and he pulls me into him. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s claiming. His mouth slants over mine with a possessiveness that steals the air from my lungs and replaces it with something darker.
When he pulls back, his eyes are molten. “Mine,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Mine,” I mutter back.
He smirks. “Say that again, wife.”
“Mine,” I repeat, louder this time, letting the word fill the space between us.
Something dangerous flashes across his face. It is pure satisfaction. Like I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted without realising I was playing into his hands.
The priest coughs, clearly desperate to escape. “The ceremony is complete. May God bless this union.”
Arkady doesn’t look away from me. “Vik, see Father Alexei out. Make sure he’s compensated for his time and his discretion.”
“Of course, Pakhan.” Vik moves toward the priest, who practically sprints for the door.
Dima has already melted back into the shadows, leaving us standing in the foyer like two opposing forces held together by platinum bands and mutual insanity.
“Now what?” I ask, my voice steadier than my pulse.
“Now I get to do what I’ve been wanting to do since I first saw you on the dancefloor, krasotka.”
“Which is what? You already abducted me.”
He grips the back of my neck tighter as he moves in closer, pressing his hard body to mine. “Fuck you until you scream my name so hard, it’s the only thing you will remember.”
My breath catches, and the heat between my thighs pulses with an urgency that borders on painful. His grip on my neck is firm, possessive, and I fist the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer.
“Then stop talking about it,” I breathe against his mouth.
The sound he makes is low, primal, and it vibrates through my chest like a warning.
His free hand grips my hip, fingers digging into the silk hard enough to bruise, and he walks me backwards until my spine hits the wall.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, but I don’t care because his mouth is on mine again, devouring me like I’m the only thing standing between him and oblivion.
His tongue sweeps against mine, and I moan into him, my fingers clawing at his shoulders.
The jacket needs to go. Everything needs to go.
I want skin against skin, the weight of him pressing me into something solid while he takes what he’s been promising since his hands landed on my hips on the dancefloor.
He breaks the kiss long enough to spin me around, pressing my chest against the wall. His hand slides from my neck down the length of my spine, tracing the Cyrillic script through the silk like he’s reading it with his fingertips.
“I’ve been thinking about this tattoo since I first saw it,” he growls against my ear, his breath hot and making me shiver. “About tasting every letter. About marking you the way you’ve marked yourself.”
I arch into him, my palms flat against the wall, and the cool surface does nothing to calm the fire he’s stoking. “Then do it.”
His hand fists in the silk at my hip, and I hear the fabric tear. The sound makes my pulse spike, arousal flooding through me so fast it makes me dizzy. He’s destroying the dress, and I don’t care. I want it gone. I want everything gone.
“Wait,” I pant. “Your men.”
“Know well enough to stay the fuck away,” he growls back and rips my knickers from me with a swift tug that bites into my skin.
“Ah,” I cry out as his fingers slide over my clit, pressing down hard enough to make my legs shake.
“I’m taking you right here, right now, my wife. If anyone walks in, they will die a painful death.”
I can barely process his words because his fingers are doing something that makes rational thought impossible. He circles my clit with the perfect amount of pressure, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out again.
“Don’t hold back,” he orders, his mouth against my neck. “I want to hear every sound you make.”
His fingers slide lower, teasing my entrance, and I’m so wet it’s embarrassing. He groans against my skin when he feels it, the sound raw and pleased.
“Fuck, you’re soaked for me.” He slides two fingers inside me, twisting them in a way that makes my knees buckle. His other arm wraps around my waist, holding me up against the wall as he works me with his hand.
His voice is a rough whisper against my ear. “Khoroshaya devochka. Let me feel how much you want this.”
I’m already close, my body wound so tight I might shatter.
His thumb finds my clit again, pressing down with cruel precision while his fingers curl inside me, scraping against that spot that makes my vision blur at the edges.
The pleasure borders on pain, a dark, consuming heat that threatens to burn me alive from the inside out.
I come with a broken sound that doesn’t even sound human, my teeth sinking into my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
My body convulses against his hand, the cool wall the only anchor keeping me from dissolving completely into the violent pleasure that feels like drowning.
He doesn’t give me time to recover. His fingers slide free, and I hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. My pulse hammers in my ears as he positions himself behind me, one hand flat on the wall beside my head, the other gripping my throat as he tilts my head to the side.
He pushes inside me in one brutal thrust that tears a scream from my throat.
He pulls out slowly, torturously, and then slams back in.
I cry out again, and he groans, the sound vibrating through me.
His hips snap forward again, each savage thrust a confession of violence, each withdrawal a promise of worse to come.
The brutal cadence builds like approaching thunder, and darkness edges my vision as pleasure borders pain, my body no longer my own but a vessel for his obsession, his possession.
His grip on my hip is bruising, his cock filling me so completely I can barely breathe.
I’m pinned between his body and the wall, utterly at his mercy, and the thought makes me clench around him, drawing a feral growl from his throat.
“Mine,” he snarls against my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp as he slams into me again, my fingers scrabbling against the wall for purchase. “Fuck, Arkady—”
He pulls out completely, and before I can protest the loss, he spins me around to face him.
His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with lust as he lifts me effortlessly.
I bunch the dress up and wrap my legs around his waist, so he can drive back into me with a force that knocks the air from my lungs.
“Look at me,” he commands, one hand gripping my jaw. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock.”
I meet his gaze, unable to look away even if I wanted to.
His thrusts are merciless, each brutal invasion claiming territory deeper inside me, the pain and pleasure fusing into something that feels like dying, like being unmade and reborn with every savage stroke against that secret place that belongs to him now. Only to him.