Page 38 of Gilded Shackles
I try to walk slower. Or faster. My body chooses chaos and does both. One foot at a time, Elle. Be graceful. Remember?
My mother's hand rests briefly at my spine, then falls away when we reach the front. She places my hand into his like she's passing an envelope across a table. Transaction complete.
His palm closes around mine.
A real hand.
Warm.
Solid.
Rough where the ink sits, and steady in a way that makes my chest ache.
The contact sends a shock through my system I don't show on my face but feel everywhere. His grip is firm, and he gives my hand a gentle squeeze, as though to say:it's okay.
It's the first sign of comfort I've had all day. I try not to bawl my eyes out right then and there, for all the wrong reasons on what's supposed to be the most beautiful day of my life.
It could have been worse, I remind myself. Nikolai is my lucky shot at life on my own terms.
I face forward, toward the priest, but my awareness never leaves the weight of his hand over mine. The ceremony begins. Words are spoken, things like unity, honor, and fidelity, but they drift through the air like they were said only so the room could say it happened.
I can hardly feel my own breathing.
My pulse beats in my fingertips where they're caught in his.
The priest's voice finally cuts through.
"Do you, Raphaella Donovan..."
"Yes."
I answer before I even realize I've done it. I don't know if it's bravery or sheer survival instinct, like if I hesitate, I'll run. But the answer comes without doubt. Like it's the right one.
And then it's his turn.
"I do."
He says it without pause, without question, with such steady, lethal certainty that it shivers through me. Not like acceptance. Like ownership. And for one terrifying, electrifying heartbeat, I don't feel caught at all.
I feel chosen.
Gulp.
And then, the part I swore I'd be ready for but clearly am not: "You may kiss the bride."
Time stutters.
Nikolai steps forward.
His hand slides along my jaw, tattooed fingers warm against my skin.
My heart begins to gallop as I stare into those blue eyes. Clear and cold and absolutely certain of what they want. He leans down, cups my chin like it's already his.
Pure possession. Fiery and wild. He tilts my face up and brings his lips to graze against mine.
Anything but perfunctory.
He angles his head and glides his tongue over my lips. It is not appropriate for church, but Nikolai doesn't care who's watching. His hands slide down to my hips and jerk me against him.
