Chapter 5

Laura

Present time

THE PRIESTclears his throat, drawing our attention back to the ceremony. “Shall we begin?” he asks, his voice thin and reedy.

Relief crashes over me in a dizzying wave.

Thank God. Thank God he’s alive.

“Today, we come together in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in the sacred bonds of marriage,” the priest announces. His voice booms through the church, echoing off the stone walls and high ceilings.

This is it. This is really happening.

The reality of the situation crashes over me like a tidal wave, threatening to sweep me away. I’m about to marry a man I barely know, a man who leads a life so far removed from my own that it might as well be on another planet.

But he’s here. He’s alive. And right now, that’s all that matters.

The priest continues, his words washing over me in a distant hum. “Marriage is a sacred covenant, a promise made before God and man. It is not to be entered into lightly but with great reverence and understanding of the commitment being made.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight with emotion. Commitment. The word tastes bitter on my tongue. What kind of commitment can there be in a marriage like this, one born of violence and coercion?

But then again, what choice do I have?

The thought sends a chill down my spine, and I tighten my grip on Victor’s hand. He glances down at me, his good eye searching my face.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

Am I ready? No. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for this.

But I nod anyway, steeling myself for whatever comes next. “I’m ready,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

As the priest continues, I find myself really looking at Victor for the first time since he appeared at my side. Even with his injuries, he’s an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered, his tuxedo straining against the muscles of his chest and arms. He holds himself with a coiled strength, like a predator ready to strike at any moment.

My gaze travels over his face, taking in the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw. His hair is slicked back, but a few strands have come loose, falling over his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush them aside.

He catches me staring and quirks an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. I feel a flush creep up my neck, and I quickly look away, trying to focus on the priest’s words.

“Do you, Victor Morozov, take Laura Ann Thompson to be your lawfully wedded wife? Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish her, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

Victor’s voice is deep and clear, ringing out through the church. “I do.”

The priest turns to me. “And do you, Laura Anne Thompson, take Victor Morozov to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love, honor, and obey him, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. Obey him. The words send a chill down my spine, a reminder of the power imbalance between us. But what choice do I have?

“I do,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

“May we have the rings, please?” the priest asks.

Ksenia helps Eli step forward, a small pillow clutched in her hands. On it rest two simple gold bands, gleaming in the candlelight.

“You look gorgeous today,” he says and gives her a wink. Eli giggles, her eyes sparkling with innocent joy. It’s a brief moment of levity in an otherwise solemn ceremony, and I find myself clinging to it like a lifeline.

Beside Ksenia, Andrey Morozov sits tall and proud, his head nodding in approval. He looks every inch the patriarch, the king of his criminal empire. His eyes meet mine for a moment, and I see a flicker of something there—satisfaction, perhaps, or even triumph.

I tear my gaze away, letting it drift over the rest of the congregation. The church is filled with unfamiliar faces, men and women in expensive suits and glittering jewels. They watch the ceremony with cool, appraising eyes, their expressions ranging from boredom to mild interest.

No one is smiling, not really.

There’s no joy here, no celebration of love and new beginnings. This is a business transaction, plain and simple.

Except for my father.

He sits in the front row, a broad grin splitting his face. He looks like the cat that got the cream, and I know why. This wedding just made him thirty grand richer, courtesy of the Morozov family.

I turn away from him, fixing my eyes on Victor and Eli instead. He’s forcing a smile, though I can see the pain he’s holding back.

“Thank you, milaya,” he whispers to her.

Eli’s eyes widen as she watches Victor take the ring, a mixture of excitement and nervousness playing across her young face. She’s been looking forward to this moment, to being a part of something so grown-up and important.

He turns to me, taking my hand in his. His touch is warm, his skin rough with calluses. Slowly, deliberately, he slides the ring onto my finger, his gaze never leaving mine.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he says, his voice low and intense.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. When it’s my turn, I take his ring from Eli with trembling fingers. It feels heavy in my palm, weighted with the significance of what it represents.

I slide it onto his finger, my hand shaking. “With this ring, I… thee wed,” I repeat, my voice a husky whisper.

Victor’s hand tightens around mine, his thumb brushing over the band on my finger. It’s a possessive gesture, a silent reminder that I belong to him now.

The priest nods, satisfied. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Victor turns to me, his good eye glinting with… happiness?

Is he really happy?

“Kiska, your body betrays you,” he whispers, his hand sliding up my neck to tilt my chin up. “It knows who it belongs to, even if your mind hasn’t caught up yet.”

His grip on my waist tightens, pulling me flush against his body. I can feel the hard planes of his chest, the coiled strength in his arms. It’s a reminder of his power, his dominance.

And then he’s kissing me, his lips claiming mine in a bruising, demanding kiss. I gasp, and he takes advantage, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, staking his claim. I’m drowning in the sensation, in the heat of his touch and the intensity of his desire. My hands fist in his shirt, clinging to him as he plunders my mouth.

I forget where I am, forget the crowd watching us. All I can think about is the feel of his body pressed against mine, the heat of his mouth, the way his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer.

When he finally breaks the kiss, I’m breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. He rests his forehead against mine, his thumbs stroking over my cheekbones.

“You’re mine now, kiska,” he whispers, his voice low and possessive. “And I always take what’s mine, completely and utterly, until there’s nothing left but the pleasure and pain I give you.”

I stare up at him, caught between fear and something else, something I don’t dare put a name to. Because if I do, if I acknowledge the heat coiling in my belly, the way my skin tingles everywhere he touches…

I’ll be lost.