by Zoe Blake
“I’m perfectly safe. I’ll be with my brothers all day.”
“Your brothers’ attentions are divided. Mine won’t be. I mean it, Nadia. There are things happening today that you are not aware of. Dangerous men are here. I don’t want you out of my sight.”
He was being ridiculous. We were literally traveling with our own private army right now. I sighed. This was silly. I was nervous enough being part of the wedding party. I hated crowds and being even close to the center of attention. The last thing I needed was also being the subject of Mikhail’s intense regard all day. He was just nervous because so many of the additional guards were not part of our usual inner circle. That and the fact that as the head of security, it was his job to keep us safe even though we were in the uncontrolled environment of a public church. This was nothing like the tightly controlled parties at Gregor’s house.
I shook my head. “You’re overreacting. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“This is not up for discussion. Step out of line, and there will be consequences. Don’t test me on this, Nadia.”
I opened my mouth to object to his high-handed command, but at that moment, Yelena called out for me to bring the tiara.
Glaring at Mikhail, I slid out from beneath his arm and hurried to join my friends. He had absolutely no right to dictate orders to me. I wasn’t one of his minion guards, and because of him, I wasn’t even his girlfriend, so I had no intention of obeying him.
I would later deeply regret my little rebellion.
Chapter 7
Nadia
Yelena carefully pulled Samara’s veil over her tiara as I adjusted her long wedding gown train. All the guests were already waiting inside the cathedral, including my mother. There were no pews so everyone would stand throughout the two-hour ceremony.
Yelena and Damien took their places directly behind the bride and groom. I stood behind them.
Gregor leaned over and gave Samara a kiss on the cheek through her veil. “You look beautiful, malyshka.”
Samara squeezed his hand as she said, “Thank you.”
He gave her a wink. “Just remember, you’re already my wife till death do us part, no matter what you say to this Archbishop today.”
I rolled my eyes. So typically possessive of Gregor. Yelena was right — both of my brothers really were cavemen when it came to the women they loved.
Without looking, I could feel Mikhail’s presence next to me.
Speaking of overbearing cavemen….
The dramatic opening strains of Felix Mendelssohn’s Wedding March filtered from deep inside the cathedral. How ironic that this piece of music was written for Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a play filled with miscommunications and delayed love affairs as a result of an unwanted arranged marriage. We processed only to the entrance of the church where we were greeted by the Archbishop, looking regal in head-to-toe embroidered gold robes.
This was the betrothal portion of the ceremony, where Gregor and Samara would exchange rings and receive the blessing of the church. The Archbishop placed his hand over their joined hands and solemnly recited, "The servant of God, Gregor, is betrothed to the handmaid of God, Samara, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
Both were handed candles, emblematic of the light that would guide them through their marriage. They then allowed us to proceed into the cathedral.
Compared to the bright but chilly February morning outside, it was warm and darkly inviting inside.
Walking into this cathedral always took my breath away. They modeled it after the twelfth century St. Demetrius Cathedral of Vladimir, Russia, so it had all the solemn grandeur that was usually only seen in European cathedrals. Religious icons on the walls glimmered in the candlelight as the soft beams of light illuminated all the gold leaf painting. Saints dressed in jewel-toned robes of emerald, sapphire, and rubies glowered down from staggering heights. The air was rich with spices as incense burned with the musk scent of frankincense, the sweetness of myrrh, and just a hint of earthy sandalwood.
The Archbishop led Gregor and Samara to the center of the church where there was a small platform covered in a beautiful rose silk fabric that had been embroidered with tiny chamomile flowers — the national flower of Russia — which symbolized the fulfillment of all their dreams and wishes.
Since it was a long-standing superstition that the first person to step on the cloth would be the head of the household, it was no surprise that Gregor stepped up first and then reached out for Samara’s hand. As Samara joined him, Yelena and I both arranged the Swarovski crystal champagne tulle overlay and silk draping of her gown, then took our places behind her.
Although he should have stood closer to Gregor, Mikhail remained by my side. As the Archbishop intoned the litany of prayers over the couple, and they decreed their desire to marry to the congregation, all I could think about was the man standing near me. Not beside me, not with me, but near me, always nearby and watching but never a genuine part of my life.
A frisson of excited energy swept over the guests. It was time for the crowning. Unlike with the exchange of rings in an American ceremony, this was the true moment they became man and wife in the eyes of God. The crowns symbolized how they would be the king and queen of their own domestic kingdom.
Yelena and Damien stepped forward. Both of their faces were calm and thin lipped. This was a serious moment, and they would play a crucial part. Each held one of the heavy, imperial-style crowns over Gregor and Samara’s heads. The crowns were fitting for a king and queen, crafted from ornate gold with countless enormous diamonds and an ermine fur trim.
The Archbishop recited Psalm 128. “Blessed are all who fear the Lord, who walk in obedience to him.”
Mikhail cleared his throat at the phrase obedience to him. My cheeks burned as I stiffened my back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of even a dirty look.
Yelena and Damien continued to hold the crowns over Gregor and Samara’s heads as the Archbishop exclaimed, “The servants of God, Gregor and Samara, are crowned in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
As Gregor and Samara drank three times from the common cup of wine, Yelena whispered to Damien, “And you wanted to marry in some side room of Dimitri’s house, covered in bloody clothes, when we could have all this for our wedding, too.”
Damien shook his head and then responded in a harsh whisper, “Don’t I get any credit for saving your life that day?”
Yelena shrugged and shot him a saucy smile. “Technically, I’m the one who killed the guy and saved you.”
He smiled in return. “Just wait till I get you home tonight, little minx.”
The playful exchange made my heart ache. I wanted that. I wanted someone I could banter with and exchange teasing smiles filled with promise. Except not the part about killing a man. I may have accepted my family’s business, but that didn’t mean I was ready to go all in.
The Archbishop led Gregor and Samara around the ceremonial table three times, followed by Yelena and Damien holding the crowns aloft over their heads, to symbolize their first steps of marriage being guided by God. I cast my eyes down and tilted my head slightly to the right to glimpse Mikhail. It shocked me to see him looking straight at me.
Was he as affected by Gregor and Samara’s wedding ceremony as I? From the hard look in his eyes, it was difficult to tell. Mikhail kept his emotions closely in check; it was impossible to know what he was thinking or feeling.
Gregor and Samara blew out their candles as Yelena and Damien lowered the crowns and placed them back on a side table. Everyone cheered as the Archbishop offered his congratulations. The organist played Antonio Vivaldi’s Winter from his Four Seasons, another Russian tradition. The season chosen always corresponded to the month the couple were marrying.
As Gregor and Samara made their way to the front of the church, the crowd surged forward. It was the usual mix of family and friends along with business associates, the polit
ical elite, and hangers-on. Some were genuinely happy for the couple, others didn’t care, and still others were trying to hide their annoyance at being forced to stand throughout the ceremony.
Quickly the crowd felt more like a mob, as people pushed and jockeyed for a position closer to the couple. As I looked around, I could only see the top of Gregor’s head and Samara’s tiara. Yelena and Damien were swallowed up by the crowd. Turning, I completely lost sight of Mikhail. One man stepped on my dress, jerking me backwards. A woman scratched my arm with her brooch as she tried to force her way past me. Still another man took advantage of the fray to grab my ass. Before I could cry out, a furious Mikhail removed his hand.
Mikhail’s powerful arm wrapped around my waist as he lifted me off the ground, pressed against his side. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he carried me to the darkened nave in an isolated corner of the cathedral. His hand slipped over the golden Russian icons before pulling on a hidden lever. A secret panel slid inward. He grabbed my hand and stepped through the stone-arched doorway first, then guided me into the gloom. The panel slid back in place. We were immediately cast in complete darkness. The clearly unused corridor smelled damp and musty.
“Where are you taking me?”
“This is a safer way out,” he tossed over his shoulder. I stumbled slightly in my heels over a loose cobblestone, and he tightened his grip on my hand.
“How do you even know about this passage?”
“It’s my job to know.”
After several minutes, we came to a dead end. Once more, Mikhail slid his hand over the rough surface of the wall to find some unseen latch. A rusty-sounding spring gave way, and a hidden door popped open. A shaft of light brightened the gloom as fresh cool air rushed into the enclosed space. Mikhail pushed the door open wider and ushered me over the threshold. As I emerged from the darkness, I blinked a few times at the bright winter sunshine until my eyes adjusted. It appeared as though we were at the back of the cathedral, shrouded from view by the large trees and bushes that flanked the white limestone columns.
Then a shadow loomed over me, blocking the sun.
I caught my breath. As handsome as he looked in his tuxedo, there was still something dangerous and untamed about Mikhail, especially in the rare times I found myself alone with him. He had this tense energy about him. As if he were always holding himself back.
I fought to keep my voice even as I said, “The others will wonder where—”
He snatched me around the waist and drew me roughly against his body. Before I could utter a sound, his lips claimed mine. I hadn’t forgotten the taste or feel of him. Each night in my dreams, I relived our fateful encounter, which felt like a lifetime ago. Clinging to his shoulders, I surrendered to his firm embrace. His tongue played with mine as he devoured me, heart and soul.
A low groan rumbled in his chest as he deepened the kiss, pushing me against the sun-warmed stone wall of the cathedral. The almost threatening press of his cock against my stomach emboldened me. I shifted my hand till my fingertips were just barely touching his warm skin above the starched collar of his shirt. I had this crazy notion I wanted to lick him there. Wanted to taste the salty tang of his cologne and feel his warmth against the tip of my tongue.
At my slight touch, Mikhail strengthened his hold around my waist, pulling me even closer. His hand then slipped upwards, caressing my skin, till his fingers were buried in my soft curls, gently tugging my head back, opening me further to the demands of his kiss.
Rising on my toes, I pressed myself against him. There hadn’t been a day I hadn’t ached for this man’s touch. That I hadn’t lived for the small crumbs he tossed my way: a stolen glance here, the accidental brush of his hand there, the sound of my name on his lips no matter how casually.
His other hand slipped inside the V-neck of my dress to cup my breast. I moaned, praying he would pinch my nipples and cause that slight frisson of pain that only increased my pleasure like the last time we were together.
He roughly broke away from our kiss, ruthlessly pushing me back to arm’s length, then took a few steps away, his face averted.
I was being rejected. Again.
Instead of warm and smooth, the stone wall behind my back now felt hard and unforgiving. The chilly February air, which moments ago had been invigorating, was now cold and damp. Crossing my arms over my chest, I rubbed my hands over my exposed shoulders.
Mikhail shrugged out of his jacket and put it on me. It reminded me of the last time he put his jacket on me. He was rejecting me then, too.
I shrugged him off. “I’m fine.”
“You’re cold.”
Even as I fought to contain a tremor, I protested. “No, I’m not. I’m fine.”
He swung the jacket around my shoulders and tugged on the lapels. “Goddamn it, stop being so stubborn and put this on.”
I tried to break his grasp. “I don’t want your jacket. I want nothing from you.”
“If you don’t stop fighting me on this, kroshka, I’m going to take you over my knee and punish you like the child you are being.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. Furious, I swiped at them with the back of my hand. The movement caused the jacket to fall off my shoulder. Mikhail stepped closer and pulled it up, once again glaring at me. I didn’t care. I was over caring about him.
“No. You don’t get to call me kroshka. You don’t get to order me around.”
Mikhail’s eyes narrowed at my disobedient outburst. His jaw clenched as he took a step closer, arms raised.
I stumbled backwards out of his reach. “Don’t you dare touch me! Don’t you ever touch me again.”
I was done being rejected by Mikhail Volkov. I was done waiting for him. Desperately hoping that one day he would change his mind and allow us to be together. Hoping that he cared for me more than he cared about his honor and loyalty to my brothers.
Three years! For three years, I have been pining after this man, longer if I counted the time when I was just a teenage girl with a crush. In many ways, I was still just that teenage girl with a crush. My life stopped that day in my brother’s study, as if I had been holding my breath, waiting and longing for what could never be.
My friends had moved on. They had traveled and had adventures. They were now in love. Samara was married with a baby on the way and on the cusp of a thriving art career. Yelena was scheduling a trip to Paris where she was going to study for her dream career in fashion and where she also planned to design her own couture wedding gown for when she and Damien married.
And what did I have?
A small apartment above a little jewelry shop, both owned by my brothers.
No boyfriend. No grand passion. No exciting adventures.
Mikhail stepped forward again, his intent clear as he reached for me. “Babygirl, we need to talk about—”
Without making the conscious decision to do so, my arm swung out. My open palm slapped him hard across the cheek. The ominous crack of skin on skin seemed to echo around the secluded enclosure. I covered my mouth with my hand, stifling a gasp. I couldn’t believe I had just hit Mikhail. “Oh my God, Mikhail! I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry… I’m just….”
Mikhail stopped and lowered his hands. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have… touched you. I broke my promise to you. I’m sorry, krosh — I’m sorry, Nadia. You have my word, it will never happen again.”
My heart broke.
Deep down I had wanted him to protest, to shout and rage. I had wanted him to grab me by the shoulders, pull me close and proclaim that I was his woman, and he would touch me whenever he wanted. With a rueful inward laugh, I realized I wanted what Samara and Yelena had. I wanted a possessive caveman who would defy the world by tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me away. I wanted someone who would fight the odds and my powerful brothers to be with me.
I wanted someone to love me.
I finally realized Mikhail was not that man.
As the tears fe
ll, I shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to him. This time he didn’t protest.
It was over.
Although, the bitter irony was, how could something be over that had never really begun? Regardless, it was time to move on. It was time to grow up and leave my silly schoolgirl crush behind.
This time it was he who got to watch me walk away.
It took every fiber of my being, but I refused to glance back.
Chapter 8
Mikhail
Just a few more floors… I just needed to keep my shit together for a few more floors.
I inhaled and tried to calm the rising storm deep inside of me. I focused on the off-white illuminated numbers as they switched from the basement parking garage to skip the twenty odd floors to the penthouse as the private elevator picked up speed.
After entering my house, I tossed the keys on a side black marble console. Ignoring the curved French limestone staircase, the carved rosewood moldings and sterling silver accents, I headed straight to the kitchen.
The entire penthouse was expensively furnished with the latest in a sleek, modern style. There were the obligatory paintings of white canvases splashed with bright colors and the occasional vase or coffee-table book on art or photography. Everything was neat and orderly without a scrap of personality. There were no photos from my time in the military or shadow boxes of all my medals or a folded flag from a fallen comrade. No books or CDs. Nothing to give away even the slightest hint about my life.
It was empty, cold, and utilitarian, just like my life.
Opening the refrigerator, I pulled out a Nevskoe Imperial beer and tore through the gold foil-wrapped top. I tossed the metal cap into the sink and walked over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Georgetown waterfront and Potomac River. It was a magnificent view, one I rarely appreciated.
Looking out over the early morning winter gloom, I found the dark river still with only an occasional ripple on its glassy surface. Tiny glimmering lights shut off one by one, as the various college bars and pubs along M Street closed for the night. It was that strange ethereal time of day, no longer evening but not quite dawn.