Page 3 of Cruel Obsession

But the guests aren’t looking at the roses.

They’re silent. Too silent. Seated in neat rows, dressed in tailored suits and designer gowns, but no one’s smiling. No one’s talking. And there aremenstanding along the walls. Four of them. Maybe five. Dark suits. Hands clasped in front of them. Earpieces just visible beneath close-cropped hair.

One of them—tall, grim-featured, with ink crawling up his neck in dense black patterns—turns his head as I walk past. His gaze follows me all the way to the front of the room.

The coldness in my chest spreads lower.

Proceed with caution.

I take my place at the altar, gripping my notes, and glance at the groom.

Arkady Laurov.

The air leaves my lungs.

He’s tall—taller than I expected—with broad shoulders and a frame that makes his tailored suit look almost too small to contain him. His hair is ash brown, styled in a textured quiff that’s just messy enough to look deliberate, and his jaw is sharp, dusted with close-cropped stubble that shadows the hard line of his mouth.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.

Ice blue. Pale as winter sky. And when they land on me, I feel the impact like a hand around my throat.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even nod. Just watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, like he’s measuring every detail. Every breath.

Ink climbs up his throat from beneath the open collar of his shirt—blackwork feathers and wings that curl around his neck and frame his jaw. There’s a heavy steel watch on his wrist. And something about the way he holds himself—perfectly still,shoulders loose, hands at his sides—makes me think of a wolf. Patient. Waiting.

My mouth goes dry.

I force myself to look away, to focus on the bride. Rosanna is beautiful in a fragile, porcelain way. Her dress is all lace and silk and delicate beading, but her face is tight, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She’s not looking at Arkady. She’s staring straight ahead, her hands gripping her bouquet so hard the stems are bending.

She looks like she wants to run.

The air between them hums with tension—sharp, electric, ready to snap.

I clear my throat.

“Dearly beloved,” I begin, my voice steady despite the way my pulse hammers, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Arkady Laurov and Rosanna Tulikova in marriage—”

A seam pulls.

I feel it—the fabric at my neckline giving, just slightly, as I shift my weight.

Don’t move.

Don’t breathe too hard.

Just get through this and get out of here.

“Marriage is a solemn commitment,” I continue, keeping my attention on my notes. “A partnership built on trust, respect, and—”

Arkady’s gaze drops.

Just for a fragment of a second. A flicker of movement, his eyes tracking downward to my chest before snapping back up to my face.

Heat floods my cheeks.

I see his jaw tighten. A muscle ticks at the corner of his mouth, and he looks away—sharp, deliberate, like he’s annoyed with himself.

But Rosanna noticed.