Page 63 of Ruthless Vow
A guard stands near the door with his hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed somewhere above my head. He avoids looking directly at my face, either out of training or superstition. Menlike him believe eye contact invites trouble, and trouble is exactly what this room is full of.
I’m so aware of the baby growing inside of me, like we have a psychic connection and I’m trying to keep it calm. I feel its personhood so acutely.
Dahlia kneels to adjust the bottom of the skirt again.
“You look perfect,” she murmurs. “They’re going to be ready for you in a few minutes.”
I stare straight ahead. “Great,” I murmur dispassionately.
She nods and gives me a weak smile. I can’t imagine what’s going through her head right now, especially after our conversation. Not that her feelings matter. They won’t stop me from what needs to be done.
The door opens and two more men step in, both dressed like security but sharper than the ones who stand outside doors. Their posture is rigid, and they’re strapped. They don’t look like normal security guards. They look like actual soldiers. They look like they’re prepared for a battle.
The taller one speaks first.
“It’s time to go,” he tells me gruffly.
The women step back immediately. One of them makes a small sign of the cross without thinking, then catches herself and drops her hand quickly. The gesture makes me feel even more hopeless. Sympathy doesn’t help me. Sympathy gets people killed.
I straighten my back and grab my bouquet from off the table. I walk toward the men, indicating that they’d better not touch me.The guard nearest to me shifts as if he expects me to bolt. There’s nowhere to bolt to. Every hallway in this place leads to another locked door and another set of armed men.
My heels click softly against the floor as they guide me out. A wedding dress and high heels are just costume pieces. They are meant to make me look ornamental. Mikhail thinks that if I look the part, I’ll act the part. He wants me to be compliant, and thinks he can force me to do it because we’ll have an audience.
The hallway outside the main hall is lined with men. Some wear suits, some wear tactical gear under coats, some are dressed in black tie, but I can still see the bulges of their guns. They all look at me the same way, with curiosity and calculation. They don’t see a bride. They see a prize and a warning.
The air changes as we get closer to the chapel. I can hear voices now, a low murmur of conversation, laughter, glasses clinking, the sound of a crowd that’s come for the wedding of the century. They know why they’re here though The Bratva elite doesn’t gather for romance. They gather for power displays and bloodless humiliations, and today I’m the centerpiece.
The doors to the main hall open.
The space is enormous, designed to make people feel small. It has been decorated like a wedding, but it is very obviously a warehouse. White fabric is draped over beams. Flowers are arranged in thick clusters, too perfect and too symmetrical. Candlelight flickers along tables set with crystal and gold accents. The Grinkovs clearly spent a lot of money on this wedding, but it couldn’t buy them any class.
The guests turn their heads as soon as I step into view. Dangerous men with their trophy wives. The women don’t lookat me sympathetically. They watch me like they’re jealous. As if Mikhail is such a fucking prize.
Conversations taper off in sections as people notice me standing there. They all look on to catch a glimpse of the runaway bride. She’s been found. She’s been brought home safely. The drama of the last two months can finally be put to rest.
My skin prickles, but I keep my face composed. I don’t like the attention under normal circumstances, but now it feels suffocating. I remind myself to breathe.
The guards on either side of me keep moving, guiding me forward at a steady pace. They aren’t dragging me, because that would look bad for the cameras. This is theater, and the actors need to hit their marks.
I keep my gaze forward and let my peripheral vision do the work. I take in faces I recognize from childhood gatherings, men who shook my father’s hand and kissed my cheek like I was family. Some of them look away, embarrassed. Some of them look entertained. A few look almost sympathetic, but sympathy in this room is meaningless now. There’s nothing that can be done about this.
A woman sits near the front, dressed in black lace, lips painted red, eyes bright with the excitement of spectacle. She watches me like she’s watching a performance she paid to see. Her husband leans in to whisper something to her, and she smiles wider. I don’t need to hear the words to understand the tone. They’re talking about my body, my face, my value, my willingness to obey.
My stomach roils, and I feel like I might puke down the aisle. My hand twitches at my side, wanting to protect my baby, wantingto shield it from the scrutiny. I don’t move it. I keep my hands relaxed and empty because they are hoping for weakness. They are watching for any sign I might try to escape again. It’s all part of the drama for them.
They won’t get that from me. I’ll play my part right up until the end.
The aisle is too long. The hem of the dress brushes the floor as I walk, the fabric heavy and restrictive. Every step feels like I’m walking toward the gallows. The dress is heavy, weighing me down like shackles. That’s by design, I suspect. It’s harder to run away with all this extra weight on me.
Mikhail stands at the front beneath an arch of flowers, immaculate in a dark suit. He looks calm and composed, like he’s a happy groom, instead of the man who has been tearing Brooklyn apart for the last few weeks. His expression is pleasant, almost proud. He watches me approach with a gleam in his eye. I wonder how he does it. I wonder how he became such a good actor.
When our eyes meet, his smile deepens slightly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are flat and cold. They’re the eyes of a man who believes he’s getting exactly what he wants and no one could stop them if they tried.
I stop at the end of the aisle because the guards stop. The entire room is quiet now, hundreds of people holding their breath like they’re waiting for me to bold. Instead, Mikhail takes a step forward and extends his hand.
It’s a simple gesture. Anyone at a normal wedding would swoon at a groom offering support to his future wife. They would wipe their eyes seeing a man welcoming his bride.
Only I know that this is really a trap. If I take his hand, the cameras get their photo. The crowd gets their proof. The narrative becomes solid. Anya Malenkova finally accepted her place.
