The wedding march played, and I walked down the aisle all alone.
The venue was gorgeous. Big, rounded windows, lots of natural light. Plants bloomed along the walls with broad leaves, deep green and shimmering. The space was air-conditioned, but still humid and hot, and half the guests fanned themselves with the program.
I didn’t recognize any of them.
I knew I wouldn’t—but it was strange. This was my wedding day. I was the bride.
And I was a total stranger.
I made it halfway to the altar when I saw my father. He sat on the far side of the room on my right next to a shriveled old man in a wheelchair and a big goon with a shaved head. It took me a moment to realize the ancient, wizened creature was Oisin MacKenna. I hadn’t seen him in a long time, but I remembered him as a powerful, strapping monster with a booming laugh.
Now he looked like he could barely hold himself together.
I wondered if my dad cared that he wasn’t walking with me. I doubted he ever thought about my wedding, about my future, at least beyond how it might affect his own career. I had a feeling it never occurred to him—that I was always just a tool to increase his power and prestige.
My father was nothing. He didn’t matter. I looked forward, chin held high, and stared at Roman.
My husband. He looked perfect in a custom-made tuxedo. It fit him like a wetsuit, showing off his well-muscled body. He exuded confidence and wealth, and the way he looked down at the people gathered before him was like a king surveying his subjects. I realized all over again that I was about to marry that man, that Oligarch, that beast.
And it sent a thrill through my chest, knowing that he wanted this to be more than a business arrangement.
Roza was my only bridesmaid. Erick stood next to Roman and winked at me. The priest was a middle-aged man, reed-thin and swallowed by his white and black and purple robes.
I reached the altar and stood across from Roman. He lifted my veil and smiled at me.
“You look perfect,” he whispered as the priest began the ceremony.
“Thank Roza for that.”
“No, it’s not her. You’d look incredible in anything, but god, Cassie, that dress.”
“You’re looking at me like you want to rip it off right here.”
His grin widened when the priest cleared his throat and read louder.
The room disappeared. Roman’s hands felt warm and rough on my own. He had the hands of a man that worked outside, although I didn’t know how. The strangers, my father, even Oisin, were a vague blip in the corner of my vision, and Roman filled the rest of me.
His smile, his lips, his teeth. The wrinkle between his eyebrows. The soft cleft beneath his nose. The square chin. The stubble on his cheeks.
He looked at me like I was the drink of water after a long, hard run, and it sent rays of sparking joy down my spine.
My husband.
“Do you, Roman Lenkov, take Cassie Ward to be your wife?”
“I do.” He tilted his head. “Always.”
“And do you, Cassie Ward, take Roman Lenkov to be your husband?”
“I do.”
“Then by the power vested in me by the church and the state, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Roman wrapped me in his arms as the crowd cheered and pressed his lips against mine—but only for a moment. “Ready?” he whispered.
“Ready.”
Then he pulled back and shoved me toward the priest. I slammed into him and grabbed a handful of his robes to pull him along as we tumbled down behind the altar just in time for the screaming to start.
