Chapter 10
The chapel doors slam behind me, and I jump like I’ve been caught.
The sound booms around the stone walls and bounces back at me. The building might just well announce I’m here for my own execution.
The place smells like old incense and candle wax and cold stone. The saints on the walls stare down with gold halos and flat eyes that say, You walked in here on your own, sweetie. You’re on your own now.
My heels click on the marble. The dress is heavy as hell, layers of silk wrapping around my ankles, so I have to kick the skirt out of the way to move forward.
Kick. Step. Kick. Step. The dress is trying to trip me.
Galina keeps a tight grip on my elbow. Without her, I would fold. Her hand is small but strong, dragging me toward the altar whether I like it or not.
The bruises aren’t even up yet, but my knees ache.
Every step sends a reminder through the joint. Hard floor. His hand tangled in my hair. The hot rush of shame when my body reacted to him while I was on my knees.
Fantastic memory to bring into a church.
Roman stands at the front beside the priest. The top button opens at his throat. It should make him look softer. It doesn’t.
He isn’t looking at me.
His gaze sweeps the room, doors, windows, and lands on Vadim leaning against the pillar by the exit.
When he finally looks at me, I melt like butter.
His eyes run the length of me. I swear I feel it, hot and heavy, trailing across my skin under the fabric.
My stomach drops. Lower down, my body answers to him with a heat I hate.
Stop it. He’s not hot. He’s a problem with abs.
A priest waits behind the altar rail, hands folded over a big gospel book. He looks like a real priest should look: gold and red vestments, tidy beard, kind eyes. The kind eyes falter when he looks at Roman, then at Vadim, like he’s seen this show before and already knows it ends badly.
“Anya Nikolayevna,” he says, voice warm and gentle, like this is any normal wedding. “Welcome, child. The Lord smiles upon those who enter into holy matrimony with pure hearts—”
I almost laugh.
Pure hearts. Right. Mine is currently ninety percent hatred and ten percent panic. Roman’s has probably been soaked in blood since he was twelve. If God is smiling at this, He is sick.
Roman steps forward and holds out his hand.
I stare at it.
Long fingers. Big palm. Knuckles marked with faint scars and the edges of that tattoo that crawls up his wrist. Hands that can break things.
I put my hand in his anyway.
His skin is warm. His fingers close around mine, firmly. He turns my wrist so the inside faces up, exposing the thin blue veins under my skin. His thumb settles on my pulse.
My heart rate spikes under his touch. Great. Now he knows exactly how freaked out I am.
Behind us, Vadim commands. “Nachnite.” Begin.
The priest starts the prayers. Old Church Slavonic rolls over my head, words I only half remember from childhood liturgies. It should be comforting. It isn’t. The sound makes the hair on my arms stand up; it sounds like old bargains.
Roman doesn’t look at the icons or the priest.
He keeps scanning the room. His thumb stays on my pulse. Every heartbeat makes me want to rip my hand free.
You’re doing this for Mishka, I remind myself. You can stand here and let the Wolf hold your hand for twenty minutes if it means your brother gets on that plane.
The incense makes my head swim. My slip sticks to my back where sweat is gathering, and the boning in the bodice digs into my ribs.
I focus on small things. The way Roman’s cufflink catches the light. The low murmur of the priest. The soft tick of something hitting the floor behind us when Vadim flicks more candle wax.
Anything except the fact that I’m about to become Anya Volkova.
Father Alexei opens a velvet box and lifts out two simple gold rings. He blesses them, kissing each one, then holds them out.
Roman takes my left hand again. His fingers are steady, his grip warm. He slides the ring onto my finger in one smooth motion.
The gold is warm from his palm and too tight. It feels like a shackle the second it sits at the base of my finger.
I pick up his ring.
My hands shake. The band catches on his knuckle and refuses to move. For one stupid second, I stare at it, stuck halfway, and think, Even the ring doesn’t want this.
I push harder.
The metal scrapes over bone and finally snaps into place. Roman doesn’t flinch. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly; that’s it. He holds my gaze the whole time like we’re both pretending we don’t feel the weight of the thing we just did.
Father Alexei reaches for another set of props. Crowns. Gold-plated, joined by a white ribbon.
He places one carefully on Roman’s head. The sight is so absurd I almost choke. Crime lord crown. Sure. Why not. Let’s go full fairy tale from hell.
Then he puts the other one on me.
The rim presses down on my skull, heavy and cold. The ribbon between us lifts, taut, connecting us like a leash.
“Walk,” the priest says. “Three times around the altar. As husband and wife.”
Roman tightens his grip on my hand and leads.
I go.
My skirt swishes around my legs, fighting me with every step. My left knee screams when I turn.
The first circle feels like a blur. Candlelight. Icon. Priest. Roman’s shoulder, big and solid beside me.
The second time around, he moves a little faster. The ribbon snaps tight between our crowns and jerks my head forward.
I make an undignified choking noise and stumble. My free hand flies to his forearm to catch myself. His muscles are hard under the fabric, a wall of heat.
He adjusts instantly, slowing his pace. The pressure on my head eases.
By the third circle, I’m lightheaded. The crowns feel heavier, the room smaller. Roman’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles, quick and almost gentle, like he’s grounding me.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the corset.
We stop in front of the altar again. My legs go soft.
Father Alexei lifts a chalice.
“Drink from the common cup,” he says. “One life, one flesh, one path.”
Sure. One shared descent into madness.
Roman drinks first. His throat works as he swallows, Adam’s apple sliding under skin, and I catch myself watching like an idiot. The man is a walking war crime, and my brain is over here narrating his jugular.
The priest hands me the chalice.
He doesn’t wipe the rim.
My lips touch the exact place Roman’s were a second ago. Warm metal. Red wine. Him.
My stomach flips again. Between the incense and the tight dress and the taste of him on the rim, I’m dangerously close to either throwing up or fainting. Neither seems like a strong start to my career as a Bratva wife.
I take a small sip. It sticks in my throat. I force it down.
Mishka is on the plane. Think of Mishka.
Then Father Alexei lifts an icon from the altar. Christ Pantocrator, all serious eyes and gold halo.
“Kiss the icon,” he says. “Seal your union before God.”
My body locks.
My grandmother used to say icons were windows to Heaven. You kiss one, you’re kissing God Himself.
I am not dragging God into this mess.
My mouth goes dry. The incense smells stronger. The lights seem dimmer around the edges. My heart bangs so hard under Roman’s ring I’m surprised everyone in the chapel can’t see it.
I don’t move.
“Child,” the priest tries again softly. “You must—”
“No.”
The word drops out of me before I decide to say it.
Roman’s hand tightens around mine. Vadim straightens up from his lean against the pillar. Somewhere behind me, a candle crackles.
Father Alexei blinks. “Anya—”
“No.” My voice is clearer now. Stronger. “I’m not going to kiss that and pretend this is holy. It isn’t.”
Roman shifts beside me. He steps away half a pace, making space.
Of course he wants to watch what I do. The chemist is reacting unexpectedly.
I lift my hands to the crown.
The pins yank my hair when I drag it off. Pain spikes across my scalp, and I welcome it. Real pain is better than this numb, floating panic. The crown comes free, and I drop it.
It hits the marble with a loud metallic crash and rolls a little, the ribbon trailing behind it like a bleeding vein.
Vadim laughs. “Bozhe moy. She’s got teeth.”
I turn to Roman.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sick, but I keep my chin up.
“You’re not marrying me,” I say, and my voice comes out steady, which feels like a miracle.
“You’re buying me. You threatened my brother.
That’s not God. That’s business. I’ll sign your papers.
I’ll wear your ring. I’ll do what I have to do to keep Mishka safe.
But I am not going to kiss that icon and act like any of this is a blessing. ”
The words echo around the chapel.
Roman stares at me.
For a second, I brace for it—the rage, the cold violence, the reminder of who holds the power here. This is his house. His chapel. His family.
He crouches, picks up the crown I dropped, and dusts off the rim with his thumb.
Then he walks to the altar and sets it down gently, together with his, beside the Virgin’s painted feet.
“She’s right,” he says. “We’re done.”
He looks at the priest, not at me. “The civil paperwork is signed. That’s what matters.”
Father Alexei swallows. His eyes dart to Vadim, who pushes off the pillar, amusement all over his face.
“The marriage is valid,” he agrees. “The icon is… optional.” His gaze slides over me like a hand I want to bite. “Though I will remember that the bride refused God.”
Yeah. I got that subtext, thanks.
Roman shifts just enough that his shoulder is between us now. If Vadim wants to reach me, he’ll have to reach around his nephew’s body first.
I hate that his shoulder feels safe.
Vadim waves a hand. “Khleb i sol’. Bring it.”
Galina appears with a round loaf of bread on embroidered cloth and a small dish of coarse salt. Her face is calm, but when our eyes meet, she gives the tiniest nod.
Spine, devushka.
She sets the tray on a small table and steps back.
Roman tears off a piece of bread. His hands are steady, veins raised on the backs, tendons flexing. He dips the bread in salt and eats it himself first, chewing slowly.
Then he rips another piece.
He dips that one too and turns to me.
But instead of putting it in my palm, he holds it up between his fingers at the level of my mouth, close enough that I could lean forward and take it with my teeth.
I just stare at him.
Of course he does this here. In a chapel. In front of a priest and his uncle and his grandmother and probably seven other armed men pretending to be part of the woodwork.
“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath. “You want to hand-feed me in front of Jesus?”
His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile that never quite forms. “Traditsiya,” he says softly. Tradition. “The husband feeds the wife. Shows he can provide.”
“I can feed myself,” I say. “And I’m not a fucking pigeon.”
He keeps his hand exactly where it is. The bread is inches from my lips. His eyes are steady on mine. Grey. Hot. Focused.
“You’re stubborn,” he says. “We’ve established this. Open your mouth.”
Heat hits low and fast, and I hate my body for it. I hate the way my nipples tighten under the silk, the way my thighs tense.
I should slap his hand away, bite his fingers. Something.
Instead, because everyone is watching and I have already set myself on fire once in this chapel today, I lean in and take the bread between my teeth.
His gaze drops to my mouth as I do, and a muscle jumps in his jaw.
The bread is soft and salty. His fingers brush the corner of my lip when he lets go, just a light touch, but it sparks my skin.
I chew and swallow and try not to imagine those fingers in other places.
Vadim claps his hands once, loud and satisfied. “Prekrasno. Beautiful. The Wolf and his little chemist. A modern fairy tale.”
More like a hostage negotiation with cupcakes, but sure.
Father Alexei mutters one last prayer that sounds half-hearted at best, then closes his book. The ceremony is done. Legally, spiritually, whatever-ly. I am Mrs. Wolf now.
Roman leans closer, dropping his voice so only I can hear.
“You made a statement today,” he says. His breath is warm against my ear. “Refusing the icon. Dropping the crown.”
“I’m not sorry. You can put me in your house. You can put your ring on my finger. You don’t get my faith.”
His eyes darken. He looks almost pleased. “Good,” he murmurs. “Faith can be broken. I’d rather have your fire.”
The words slide over my skin like a touch.
I swallow hard. “Careful,” I mutter. “You play with fire, you get burned. Basic chemistry.”
“I know,” he says. He lets his gaze drift down my body again, slow and shameless, taking in the dress, the neckline, the way the corset pushes my breasts up. Heat flares low in my belly. “I’m counting on it.”
My cheeks go hot. “You really think you’re that irresistible?”
He leans in just a fraction more, close enough that I can count every dark lash framing those stupid eyes.
“I think,” he says quietly, “that you’re smart enough to understand exactly what happens when you feed a fire that’s already lit.” His gaze drops to my mouth again. “And I can already feel you reacting.”
I want to hit him.
I want to kiss him.
I want to design something elegant and untraceable that stops his heart in his sleep.
Instead, I lift my chin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Volkov. The only thing burning right now is my hatred.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “Hatred is still heat, solnyshko. Give it time. It’ll melt into something else.”
I snort. “Yeah? And when that day comes, I hope you have a fire extinguisher.”
“Oh, I don’t plan to put it out.” His voice drops even lower, dark and rough enough to shiver straight through me. “I plan to make it worse.”
He straightens, putting a polite distance between us again as Vadim steps closer to congratulate us.
My knees still ache. My ring finger throbs under the weight of the band. My stomach twists with fear for Mishka.
But under all of that, something hot and ugly takes hold.
My obsession with the day I finally take back my freedom and make the Wolf choke on his own fire.