Chapter
Eleven
Amara
The wedding
I didn’t know how long we stood there, seconds, minutes… God it felt like an eternity, but then the double doors were being pulled open, a man on each side holding them, their tuxedos pressed and sharp. Their expressions were stoic as they glanced our way.
My father had his hand curled around mine, which rested on his forearm. But I wasn’t foolish enough to think it was because he was trying to reassure me. No, he was doing it so I didn’t run. Not that I would get very far in these stilettos or with all the security.
I closed my eyes and breathed slowly.
The day had finally come. I was about to wed Nikolai, heir to the Desolation Russian mafia. A man who was by all accounts… bad.
And he was to be my husband, for better or worse.
My father’s body was tense beside me, almost forbidding. I chanced a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, my veil making his visage cloudy, hazy in appearance.
He looked over at me for just a second. I could see the softening on his face, or maybe it was wishful thinking, a little girl looking up at her father, hoping and praying that he would tell her everything would be okay.
But that wasn’t who Marco Bianchi was. He was cold and hard like a block of ice, and when I saw his jaw tense, a muscle under the freshly shaved olive toned skin flex, I felt… nothing. No disappointment, no sorrow, only let the absolute hopelessness that nothing would get better fill me until it’s all that consumed me. I accepted it, dare I even say embraced that this was who and what I was and nothing could change that.
I faced forward again, stared at the large oak double doors. Bodies lined the pews, each one standing up as the traditional wedding song started playing.
My heart was racing overtime when I saw Nikolai’s dark and imposing form at the end of the aisle. He waited for me, waited to take ownership of me.
For better or worse. For better or worse. For better or worse.
It was my father tugging me forward that had me blinking back into the present, breathing out slowly, thankful for the veil, in fact, because it hid how nervous I no doubt looked.
If I hadn’t been holding onto my bouquet with one hand, and gripping my father’s forearm with the other, I knew my fingers would be shaking.
The walk down the aisle seemed to take an eternity. I felt everyone's gazes on me, their stares like a heavy presence, a weight that kept pushing me further down, down, down. And then it was as if someone pressed fast forward.
Everything was a blur as I was handed off by my father to my soon-to-be new husband, as Nikolai led me up the two steps to the altar, as words spoken by the priest. I was aware of the heavyweight of my hand in Nikolai’s, and the only thing I could hear was the heavy rush of my breathing moving through my ears.
In and out. In and out.
And then I felt Nikolai give my hand a squeeze before he positioned me so I was fully facing him now. He stared down at me for long seconds before he lifted my veil. Everything felt surreal, as if I were wading underwater, everything so thick around me I couldn’t find purchase, couldn’t get to the surface. But the longer I stared at Nikolai, the more everything seemed to fall into place. To settle.
Reality crashed into me, noises bombarded me. I smelled the spicy scent of his cologne, and felt his body heat surrounding me.
“I do,” he said low and deep, his Russian accent seeming so thick in those two words.
And when it was my turn I was on autopilot, murmuring those two words as I stared into his blue eyes.
More words were said by the priest, phrases in Latin, followed by traditional religious proceedings that had us going through the motions.
And then it was done. Finalized, sealed by six little words spoken in English.
“You may now kiss your bride.”
The corner of Nikolai’s mouth slowly curled up into a smirk, his hands rested on either side of my face, his thumbs brushing along my cheekbones. “For better or worse, printsessa.” A gentle sweep of his thumb against my bottom lip. “You’re mine now, kukolka.”
And then he was leaning down, his mouth pressing to mine, his lips surprisingly soft against mine. A little shocked sound left me when I felt his tongue stroking over the seam of my mouth. I gasped then, my first kiss sending electricity traveling to the tips of my fingers and toes.
My eyes fluttered closed when he stroked his tongue along my lips once more, when I heard the low and deep groan rumble out of his throat.