Chapter 20 – Kirill
The wedding was nothing short of royal.
Barbara’s high society legacy and my Bratva bloodline had collided in the most spectacular way possible, a fusion of two worlds that should never have mixed but somehow created something beautiful in the chaos.
The Davis estate had been transformed into something from a dream, every detail perfect, every element carefully chosen to represent both of us.
White roses and peonies lined the grand aisle, hundreds of them arranged in cascading displays that filled the air with their subtle fragrance.
The chandeliers overhead dripped with crystals that caught the afternoon light and threw it across the assembled guests in patterns of rainbow fire.
Sharply dressed men and women filled every seat—Bratva soldiers in tailored suits sitting beside society’s elite, corporate moguls sharing space with Vladimir’s inner circle.
The string quartet played something classical and beautiful that I didn’t recognize, but Barbara had insisted on. She’d gotten her obnoxious string quartet after all, though this one was actually talented, their music weaving through the space like a living thing.
I stood at the altar, hands clasped in front of me, trying not to fidget with the cufflinks Vladimir had given me this morning.
Bratva symbols etched in platinum—a reminder of what I represented, what I was bringing Barbara into.
The black-on-black tux fit perfectly, custom-tailored to accommodate the pistol holster hidden beneath my jacket.
Old habits. Even at my own wedding, I came armed.
Then the music changed, and everyone stood.
Barbara appeared at the entrance, and my breath stopped.
She looked ethereal. There was no other word for it.
She wore a custom off-shoulder silk gown with a sweetheart neckline that made her look like something out of a fairy tale—elegant and timeless and absolutely stunning.
The dress hugged her curves before flowing out into a train that seemed to go on forever.
Her dramatic veil cascaded down her back, held in place by a crystal tiara that caught the light with every small movement.
But it was her face that destroyed me. The smile that transformed her features. The happiness radiating from her like sunlight. The way her honey-brown eyes found mine across the distance and held, promising everything.
Andrew walked her down the aisle, his expression unreadable but his hand steady on her arm. When they reached the altar, he placed her hand in mine with a single nod, the closest thing to a blessing I was going to get from him.
I didn’t care. Because Barbara was here. Was choosing this. Choosing me.
The ceremony blurred. The officiant spoke words I barely heard, too focused on Barbara’s face, on the way her hand trembled slightly in mine, on the tears gathering in her eyes that she kept blinking back.
Vladimir stood as my best man, his presence a silent endorsement that carried weight in both our worlds.
Hailey and Cassandra stood on Barbara’s side, both of them openly crying.
Then came the vows.
“I, Kirill Petrov….” My voice came out steady despite the emotion threatening to choke me. “Take you, Barbara Davis, to be my wife. To have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, until death do us part.”
The traditional words felt insufficient. Didn’t capture what I actually wanted to promise her—that I’d destroy anyone who tried to hurt her, that I’d burn the world down to keep her safe, that she’d never be alone again as long as I drew breath.
But they’d have to do.
Barbara’s voice shook as she repeated her own vows, and I watched tears finally spill over, tracking down her cheeks. I wanted to reach up and brush them away, but the officiant hadn’t gotten to that part yet, so I just held her hands tighter and let her see everything I felt reflected in my eyes.
“By the power vested in me—” The officiant’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
I didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. Just pulled Barbara close and kissed her with everything I had, every promise I couldn’t voice, every emotion I didn’t have words for, every piece of my soul that now belonged to her.
The crowd melted. I heard applause, heard people crying, heard Vladimir’s rare laugh and Timur’s whistle.
But it all faded into background noise because Barbara was kissing me back with the same desperate intensity, her hands fisting in my jacket, her body pressed against mine like she could somehow get closer despite the layers of fabric between us.
When we finally pulled apart, both breathless, I claimed her completely with one more kiss, softer this time, but no less possessive. Mine. She was mine now. Legally. Publicly. Irrevocably.
Mrs. Barbara Petrov.
The reception passed in a blur of champagne and speeches and dances I barely remembered.
Barbara’s hand stayed in mine through it all, anchor and promise.
We cut the ridiculous cake she’d insisted on, seven tiers covered in white fondant and sugar flowers.
We danced the first dance while everyone watched, and I held her like she might disappear if I loosened my grip even slightly.
A few hours later, we were able to escape. To slip away from the party still raging at the estate and drive to my penthouse, to the space that would now be ours instead of just mine.
The city lights blurred past the car windows as my driver navigated Chicago’s streets.
Barbara sat pressed against my side, her head on my shoulder, her hand resting on my thigh.
We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The silence between us was comfortable, charged with anticipation but peaceful in its certainty.
When we reached the penthouse, I dismissed the driver and carried Barbara through the threshold despite her laughing protests that she could walk. Tradition mattered, even if most of my traditions involved violence and codes instead of romance and ceremony.
The door closed behind us with a soft click that felt final. Definitive. The outside world locked out, leaving just us in this space that would be our sanctuary.
I set Barbara down gently, and she immediately reached for my jacket, sliding it off my shoulders. Her fingers found the holster beneath, and she paused, one eyebrow raised.
“You wore a gun to our wedding?”
“Old habits.” I shrugged, pulling the weapon free and setting it on the dresser. “Besides, Sebastian’s still out there. I’m not taking chances.”
Her expression flickered—fear trying to intrude on this perfect moment. I couldn’t allow that.
“Hey.” I turned back to her, cupping her face in both hands. “Forget everything. Just for tonight. Sebastian, the video, Los Zetas, all of it. Tonight is ours. Only ours. Just you and me and nothing else.”
She looked up at me with those honey-brown eyes that had haunted me since that first night in the club. “Make me forget,” she whispered, and the request held so much weight. So much trust.
I kissed her like a man who’d waited a lifetime for this moment. Desperate and starved and reverent all at once. My wife. This beautiful, broken, impossibly strong woman was my wife, and I was going to spend the rest of my life making sure she knew exactly what that meant.
She gasped when I swept her off her feet, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back. I didn’t carry her to the bed; I marched her there, driven by a hunger that had been clawing at my throat all day.
The wedding dress—a masterpiece of silk and lace—was a cage I needed to destroy.
I set her down on the edge of the mattress and attacked the fastenings.
Buttons popped, flying off to ping against the floor.
When a hidden zipper jammed, I didn’t finesse it.
I gripped the delicate fabric in both hands and ripped it.
The sound of tearing silk was loud, sharp, and incredibly erotic.
“Kirill!” she breathed, her eyes wide, pupils blown.
“I don’t care,” I growled, stripping the ruined garment from her body until she was left in nothing but a scrap of white lace panties and her stockings. “I need to see you. Now.”
I pushed her backward, following her down, my weight settling between her legs. I didn’t kiss her lips immediately. I feasted on her throat, sucking a dark, violaceous bruise right over her pulse point.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured against her skin, biting lightly. “I’m marking you, moy malen’kiy voin. I want everyone to know who owns this skin.”
My little warrior, I’d called her. There was no nickname more fitting.
“You do,” she whimpered, arching her back as my hand slid up her thigh, fingers rough against the silk of her stockings. “Only you.”
I hooked my fingers into the lace of her panties and tore them away. The scent of her—aroused, sweet, and heavy with musk—hit me, and I nearly lost my mind right then.
“Beautiful,” I rasped.
I moved down her body, spreading her thighs wide, draping her legs over my shoulders.
I buried my face in her wet heat, my tongue broad and flat as I tasted her.
She cried out, her hands tangling in my hair, trying to pull me closer.
I showed no mercy. I devoured her, swirling my tongue over her clit, sucking hard, then sliding two fingers deep inside her to curl and pump.
She tasted like ruin. She tasted like forever.
“Please,” she begged, her hips bucking against my mouth. “Kirill, please, I need you inside.”
I pulled back, leaving her flushed and trembling, her entrance glistening and swollen. I shed my own clothes in record time, kicking them aside, my erection heavy and aching for her.