Chapter 11 #2
“Aria, they let you live,” she says finally.
“I know, you’re obviously normal and not related to a bunch of psychopaths, and this is all hard to understand.
But I’m so excited. I knew you were brilliant.
You and I are going to be very good friends.
You’ll see. Now, let's get you ready. He’ll probably be back here in like two minutes breaking the damn door down.
” She rolls her eyes but doesn’t completely cover up her fear.
In a whirlwind that makes my head spin, I lose the robe and don the most luxurious undergarments known to humanity.
She tones and moisturizes and primes my face, helps me into my dress, then applies makeup with expertise.
I let her take the lead since I’m sort of in a state of shock and she knows what she’s doing.
“Wow,” I whisper, staring at my reflection. “You’re a genius.”
“Makes two of us,” she says with pride. “Oh, you look amazing. If my brother doesn’t swoon for you, I’ll marry you myself.”
“Now wouldn’t that be a plot twist,” I murmur. But I’m staring at myself in the mirror. I turn my head to the side, the logical side of my brain trying to make sense of the fact that this woman in the mirror is…me.
My almond-shaped eyes look mysterious without the shade of glasses, the deep brown almost black. My high cheekbones are tinged with pink, my lips a glossy rose. My long, jet-black hair flows past my shoulders with none of the frizz I’ve grown accustomed to.
“They say you can’t buy beauty in a bottle, but…” I murmur.
Polina snickers. “Girl, you can’t. You can enhance it, though. No wonder he got one look at you and made his move.”
My heart beats faster. I feel as if I’m an actor in a play, and I’m not sure what the next act is going to bring.
A fist pounds the door so hard we both jump.
“Time to go.”
“We’re not ready!” Polina says, even though we totally are. Apparently, she doesn’t like being told what to do. That makes two of us.
I give her a ghost of a smile, because I’m not sure that isn’t Mikhail, and if it is…
“You have three minutes or I'm coming in and taking both of you out of there myself.”
“That was Mikhail,” she says. "Something happened. Let's finish getting ready. I was going to style your hair, but it's gorgeous down. We’ll leave it down. Dear God, you really are stunning.”
That actually makes me laugh. It feels good to laugh. "How do you survive with all this testosterone?”
"Well, it's a little bit of a secret. I might be Mikhail’s favorite.” She leans in. “Though something tells me you’ll be top of his list.”
I open my mouth to protest. He hates me. And I’m not even sure I want him to like me. But she leans in and kisses my cheek. “I can’t believe I’m going to have a sister,” she whispers. For one brief moment, I don’t regret hacking into the Romanovs’ databases.
The door opens and Prince Charming himself storms in. Polina groans. “For an otherwise superstitious people, it’s shocking to me that you don’t seem to believe in bad luck.”
“What I believe in is Volkov’s revenge,” Mikhail says in a tight voice.
He takes me by the hand and suddenly seems glued in position.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong,” he says. “You look…beautiful.”
“Mikhail! You can’t look at her right now! I know, I know, you don't trust anybody else to protect her. Guess what, we have an entire army of men ready to kill anybody that threatens her. Okay?”
I needed protection. Holy shit, I got protection.
It feels like forever that I've lived day by day for survival, letting go of anything and everything that had meaning for me. Here, I have a chance to start over. I can go into this kicking and screaming. Or I can put a smile on my face and make the best of it.
I'm safe for now. For the first time in my life, I actually feel like I can breathe.
“After the ceremony, I’ll touch up your makeup for the pictures.”
“Pictures?” I feel myself blanche. What will happen when my face is shown far and wide as the bride of Mikhail Romanov?
Polina goes on. “Mikhail is going to have to prove that he's married. The pictures will go literally everywhere. We haven’t had a marriage in our family since my parents’."
“Polina,” he says in a warning voice.
How strange. Don’t they have siblings or cousins or something?
“And if I don’t want my picture published?”
Maybe I do? Do I?
“Don’t worry, little hacker,” Mikhail says in a low voice. “I’ve got it under control.”
Does he even know what worries me, though?
The last time I was outside of this room was before I was carried into the house, drugged and nearly naked and completely passed out. So I definitely don't remember the sweeping staircases, the elegant flower arrangements on every table, or the lingering scent of vanilla in the air.
We're on the second floor of what appears to be a huge house. I want to explore this house and see it with my own eyes. When I was a little girl, my mom had an extended family that was rich. We used to have holidays at their house, until there was some kind of falling out about money or something.
Oh, I loved that house. I'd never seen anything like it before.
A sweeping garden out front, a three-season porch, a formal dining room, and an eat-in kitchen where the fridge made ice cubes and their stove had six burners.
There was a large pantry filled with all sorts of snacks that I was allowed to eat, as much as I wanted, a study near the living room, and a finished basement downstairs.
Some of my fondest memories are of exploring that house, pretending that I was a princess and I lived in a mansion.
The touch of nostalgia hits me now. This house is much more modern than the one that I remember from my childhood, but there are nooks and crannies, carpeted rooms and hardwood floors, ceilings that reach to the heavens, and so much warm, bright light.
I walk down the stairs, and even though I'm not here of my own accord, even though I know this is part of a political act, a move that will advance Mikhail or whatever it is they do in their world…I kind of like feeling like a princess.
At the foot of the stairs, there's a sprawling living room with a large, wraparound sofa in navy and a modern fireplace.
There's a priest and only a small handful of people here. Polina sits beside an older, regal woman with silvery hair. Is that her mother?
Music plays, but the tension in the room is palpable. So tense, I feel the tension in my own body, and I find I’m practically holding my breath.
Outside this window, I catch a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. Yes, we're still in The Cove, nestled between Coney Island and Manhattan. His eyes follow mine, and he drags me across the room, planting us in front of the priest. No one speaks.
"Begin the fucking ceremony," he growls to the priest.
Wow. So he just went there. No respect for the cloth?
I hear the sound of a thump and a cry. I stifle a gasp, but no one moves. Another thump and another, followed by a muffled scream.
Someone…someone’s getting beaten out there. Maybe even killed. I glance out the window and see not one but three men on the ground outside the window, about twenty feet from where we stand in the living room. Blood pools on the concrete. I stare, stricken.
Oh my God.
“Aria.” Mikhail’s voice snaps like a whip. I look back at him. “Keep your eyes on me.”
I swallow, my heart pounding in my throat, but I do what he says.
My adrenaline pulses so hard I feel dizzy.
I stare into the depths of his dark brown eyes beneath slashes of angry brows.
I stare at his eyes on me, unwavering, as he stands over me and reaches for both of my hands.
“Nothing else matters,” he says in a low voice. “Nothing but keeping your gaze on me.”
I'm not going to be able to take these vows if I see people being murdered right outside. Polina told me what was at stake — if we get married, their enemies will revolt.
Even the priest’s hands shake as he goes about the ceremony. I stumble through my vows. I’ve never been to an Orthodox wedding, but this one is definitely an abbreviated form.
“Are you here freely of your own accord?"
Mikhail narrows his eyes. “That’s not part of the ceremony and you know it.”
The priest holds my gaze.
He’s trying to save me. He knows exactly who these men are and the chances of me being forced to do exactly what I’m doing.
The truth is, I could probably walk…and then deal with the aftermath of my choice.
Yes, I’m being forced to marry Mikhail, but do I truly have another choice?
"Yes,” I say in a breathy whisper and for a moment, it doesn’t quite feel like a lie.
Mikhail goes quickly through the vows, likely meaning them as much as I do, until we both get to “I do.” I half expect the priest to say that he may kiss the bride, but Mikhail doesn't wait.
Right outside the window— as in right there, I hear a sharp cry and thud as Mikhail leans in to me.
I can hardly process that he’s going to kiss me, right while someone’s being maybe murdered right outside this window.
He presses me to him, one arm wrapped around me so tightly I can’t move.
He yanks me closer with his right arm and with his left, drags me to his chest, effectively drowning out the rest of the world.
Then tips my face, bends down, and claims my mouth.
My knees wobble from the intensity of the kiss. I feel vulnerable, as if he can feel the beating of my heart when we’re connected like this. I feel windswept, bared to him, unable to think beyond the feel of his lips on mine.
When he turns us around to face everyone, my hand fisted in his with triumph, I'm suddenly aware of all the photographers. Flashes blind me, seemingly coming from all directions. I’m trying to smile, but it feels forced, of course.
I look at the cameras and remember what Polina told me.
These pictures will be posted everywhere.