Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I wasn’t getting out.
I wasn’t getting married.
Pavel tried reaching for me again, but I lashed out, clawing, kicking. My nails scraped his wrist, making him curse in Russian before slamming the door shut.
"Sumasshedshaya zhenshchina," he muttered under his breath.
Crazy?
If he opened that door again, I’d show him crazy.
I took another long pull from the bottle. The alcohol burned its way through me, settling hot in my stomach, blurring the world at the edges. I hadn’t eaten much in days, and it was hitting me fast.
But for one glorious second, I thought I had won.
I thought someone had listened. That they had finally realized this wasn’t going to happen.
I was so wrong.
The locks clicked open.
I lunged to reengage them, but before I could, Kostya was there. “There’s my blushing bride.”
“Fuck you!”
His hand fisted my arm and yanked me out of the car.
I fought like hell, my nails digging into his wrist, my free hand swinging at his face, but he didn’t even flinch. He barely grunted as he turned me, his arm wrapping around my waist, and in one swift, brutal movement, he threw me over his shoulder.
"Put me down, you son of a bitch!" I screamed, kicked, and fought him every step of the way.
My fists pounded against his back, my nails dug into his skin, my heels struck at his ribs, but it was useless.
He didn’t break stride, walking straight into the grand Russian Orthodox cathedral with all the patience of a man carrying something that already belonged to him.
He didn’t slow.
Didn’t waver.
The massive wooden doors swung open, and I was met with a sea of eyes.
Rows of men in dark suits filled the pews, their wives beside them, draped in jewels and couture, the gleaming candlelight reflecting in their eyes as they watched.
Watched.
And not one of them moved to help me.
I hadn’t expected Pavel or Artem to step in. They were Kostya’s brothers.
But the others?
The men who had married for love and their wives sitting beside them?
Surely Yelena, Nadia, or Samara would say something.
Would do something.
But they only watched with blank expressions, their hands folded neatly in their laps as I fought and screamed.
Kostya carried me down the aisle as if I were some war trophy.
Every part of the ceremony, I tried to ruin it.
I blew out the ceremonial candle.
The priest made a joke and relit it.
I ripped the wedding crown from my head and threw it onto the marble floor.
Kostya only chuckled, shaking his head as he picked it back up, placing it on me once more.
“Be patient, babygirl,” he murmured in my ear, his voice full of promise. “We’ll get to the wedding night soon enough.”
Heat flared in my cheeks, white-hot with rage.
The men in the pews laughed.
As if this was funny.
As if this was some kind of joke.
Then Kostya turned to the priest, amusement curling at his lips.
"A bride who is not pure is so much better," he remarked smoothly. "A virgin would be nervous. But mine is eager."
The laughter deepened.
A rolling sound of smug, arrogant male amusement.
I had never wanted to slap the smile off of someone’s face more in my entire life.
So it should not have been a surprise…when I fucking snapped.
Blinding rage exploded inside me.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t hesitate.
With every ounce of fury I had, I slapped him across the face.
The crack of my palm against his cheek rang through the vast cathedral, silencing the room in an instant.
Disbelief echoed in the pews.
Someone gasped.
Someone murmured in shock.
But all I could hear was the blood roaring in my ears as I glared up at him, my chest heaving, my pulse hammering like a drum.
His head had snapped to the side from the force of it.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned back to face me.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
His eyes darkened.
Then—he smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile that sent ice through my veins.
And in that moment, I knew.
I hadn’t won.
I had only just begun to lose.
Kostya’s grip crushed my hands, his fingers pressing hard enough to make my bones ache as the priest draped his stole over our joined hands, binding us together in yet another solemn, meaningless blessing.
Angry tears burned behind my eyes.
Above me, the gilded angels and saints stared down in judgment, their painted eyes fixed on me, condemning my very presence in this sacred place.
I had never been particularly religious, but in that moment, I felt the weight of their scrutiny.
Were they judging me for refusing to be the quiet, obedient woman the church expected me to be? Was I being condemned for fighting when I was supposed to bow my head and submit?
Or were they judging me for something far worse?
For swearing up and down that I would never let this happen, only to stand here now, trapped in white lace, bound to a man who had been married to my sister?
Hell, maybe these sainted hypocrites were looking down on me for daring to wear white at all, as if purity had ever been something I claimed to have.