Chapter 27 #2
He put one hand on her ass to lift her body to his mouth, then slid his fingers into her heat, coaxing her to climax on his tongue.
She came quickly, and Oleg stood with her body still clenched around his fingers, opening his trousers and pulling out his cock before he drove into her. The first sensation he felt from his mate was the pulsing of her pleasure around his length.
“Hmm.” Oleg let out a low hum of satisfaction before he lifted Tatyana against the wall and fucked her thoroughly.
Slow retreat, hard thrust. He heard the wall behind her crack, and she let out a hard gasp.
Slow retreat. “Don’t…” Harder thrust. “…lie to me again.”
She threw an arm around his neck and hung on, riding the growing force of his hips as deftly as she rode a horse.
“And you don’t hide things,” she hissed, “from your mate.”
He closed his eyes and remembered the rise and fall of her thighs as she rode across the chaugan field, the battle cry as she bashed players with her mallet, the whoop of victory when her team scored.
Oleg bent to Tatyana’s neck and sank his teeth into her vein. He fucked her as he drank, and she pulled his hair, gripping the thick curls at his neck as her fingers dug into his skin.
He could feel the pleasure growing, growing, nearly cresting, but he wanted more.
Oleg reached down and tore at the shirt he was wearing, ripping it down the center of his chest.
“Your fangs,” he growled. “I want them.”
She leaned forward, bared her teeth, and sank them into the thick muscle of his chest, right over his slowly thudding heart.
Oleg came with a violent shudder, holding his wife’s head to his chest, and she bit so hard she tore the muscle. The pain only made him come harder.
Then she was lapping at the wound, and the sensation of her tongue stroking over his charged flesh created a shiver that started at the base of his skull and spread over his body, her body, and the field of elemental energy between them.
He closed his eyes, floating in their joined power. “Do you need to hear it to know?”
Her nails dug into his back.
“I love you,” he breathed out. “More than my own flesh, Tatyana Vorona. With everything I am. With everything I should have been.” He opened his eyes, tilted her chin up, and kissed her blood-smeared lips. “Is my love enough for you? Enough for a century of your life?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Ask me a thousand years from now. I will accept nothing less.”
The state wedding of Oleg Sokolov and Tatyana le Tala happened at midnight in a cathedral founded by an eighteenth-century regiment of the Russian army. It was closed to human parishioners but restored by the immortal largesse of Oleg Sokolov and the vampire governors of the Kievan Rus.
The vivid blue domes that topped the cathedral were decorated with shining gold stars, and the interior had been restored to its lavish, original decoration with bright icons decorating the walls and massive neoclassical pillars framing the doorway that guarded the altar at the front of the church.
Tatyana and Oleg were crowned with gold, holding long beeswax candles Oleg had lit himself at the door of the church, and wearing fur-trimmed royal robes as the priest raised a jeweled goblet of sacramental wine in front of the lectern in the center of the church.
“Bless now, with your spiritual blessing, this common cup, which you bestow on those who are now united in the communion of marriage.” The priest chanted the ancient prayers.
“For blessed is your holy name, and glorified is your kingdom, of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever and into eternity.”
Eternity.
Oleg took the cup of wine from the priest, drinking the sweet wine untainted by blood before Tatyana drank.
Then the priest repeated the act twice before Oleg and Tatyana bent down, took off their crowns, and handed them to the priests on either side of the officiant so the holy father could lead them around the lectern three times, not as king and queen but as servants of the God who witnessed their union.
As many times as Oleg had witnessed this rite—in wealth or poverty, from ancient times to modern days—the traditional ceremony never failed to move him.
The words were the same no matter the language. The ceremony did not change even as the world around him transformed.
Eternity. His eyes searched for Tatyana’s, and he caught her looking down to watch her steps as she navigated the rose-red carpet placed over the uneven stone floor in her elaborate and very heavy embroidered gown.
He kept her hand firmly in his own.
Eternal mate. Eternal wife. The blood they shared would last longer than the old stone cathedral where they were joined before the eyes of the world.
His mate wore a headdress of seed pearls and citrines that draped across her forehead and temples in a veil of hanging jewels. Her face was pale and unpainted—only a spot of rouge touched her lips.
It didn’t matter if she wore a crown or an old fur cap. She was a queen in every way.
They finished their third circle, and the choir in the cathedral broke into song.
“O Holy Martyrs, who fought the good fight and have received your crowns: Entreat the Lord that he will have mercy on our souls.”
As the choir sang, the priest walked to both of them, placing first Oleg’s and then Tatyana’s crowns back on their heads, crowning them not only as husband and wife but knyaz and knyaginya of the Kievan Rus.
Despite the ceremony of the moment, Oleg heard a few whoops and cheers from the crowd. The corner of his mouth turned up. Many of his people, after all, worshipped different gods.
After the coronation, the head priest began the final prayers and blessings over them.
Oleg angled his head to look at the crowd gathered around them.
There were Poshani Hazar and wind vampires from the north hovering throughout the cathedral, observing the proceedings with watchful eyes.
The nave was filled with vampires and humans in their finest clothing—governors, rivals, business partners, and a few old friends.
Most vampire weddings—especially formal ones—entertained the custom of the immortal guests attending in traditional clothing from the era when they were human. Most of Oleg’s family and druzhina were dressed in the bright colors and embroidered garments typical of their Varangian ancestors.
Lazlo had braided his beard, and Rudov wore his hair loose, threading bright colors into his shoulder-length locks so ribbons and gold trinkets fell down his back.
Ivan was dressed in a bright red coat with blue and gold flowers embroidered on the collar, though most of his men wore the traditional Muscovite uniform of loose pants, high boots, and heavy velvet kaftans trimmed with fur.
There were Poshani of all ranks in their finest and richest clothing, and foreign visitors in all manner of dress from modern to ancient.
“May he who by his presence in Cana of Galilee declared marriage to be honorable,” the priest chanted, “Christ our true God, through the prayers of his most pure Mother; of the holy, glorious…”
He began the final blessing, and Oleg raised Tatyana’s hand in his own as they turned to the assembled audience.
The choir sang out, and the priest continued to chant. “Grant, O Lord, peace, health, salvation, and visitation to the servants of God, Oleg and Tatyana, and preserve them for many years.”
Many years indeed.
The choir repeated the blessing three times, and then Oleg turned to his wife.
His true wife in front of the entire immortal world.
His mate in truth. His wife in public. His ally and his fiercest critic.
She was everything he wanted. Oleg would settle for nothing less.
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Only a few more steps off this carpet, little wolf.”
“This dress,” she whispered. “I’ve already nearly tripped twice. Keep hold of my hand.”
“Always.” He led her across the carpet and through the crowd to the doors of the cathedral as the gathered assembly cheered and bells rang in the clear night sky.
A light snow was falling when they reached the outside of the church where more people were waiting. All of Oleg’s household were there, along with the rest of the Poshani guests who had come to Saint Petersburg for the celebration.
Flying Hazar disguised in black tossed flower petals over the couple as they walked to a covered carriage painted by Poshani artists and pulled by a team of Rudov’s horses. The combination of bright flowers and snowflakes lit by the warm lights of the cathedral made Oleg’s heart leap in his chest.
He turned to Tatyana and saw her gazing up at the flower-filled snowfall, her bright blue eyes taking it all in, the gold crown on her head sparkling like a crown of sunlight.
“This is magical!” she called to the Poshani guests who spread flowers in the snow and cheered for them. “Thank you, my dearest. My family. Thank you.”
Oleg heard calls of “Surati!” and “Tatyana le Tala!” as throngs of humans cheered for them with raucous applause. It was the exact opposite of the silence and solemnity of the cathedral and just as sacred.
He was supposed to be solemn. This was nothing but a show for the world. He knew that.
But he could not contain his smile when he saw the delight in Tatyana’s eyes.
She turned when they reached the carriage and met his smile with her own. “You’re beautiful, you know. When you smile.”
He wanted to kiss her so badly it was an ache in his chest, but he could not when there were so many others around them. “You heard the priest, Tatyana Vorona.” He lifted his chin as he helped her into the carriage. “You’re mine now. For eternity.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I believe you are correct.”