Alessia
We land the following afternoon after a sixteen hour flight. I spent the morning playing cards with Mika and ignoring Vlad.
I’m on edge as we get off the plane and a swarm of tattooed men in suits and guns flank us and lead us to a limo.
If Vlad seemed like a one-man show back in the U. S., it’s clear he’s plenty connected on his home turf. I look out the tinted window, my hands clammy and my stomach in knots.
“It’s normal for a bride to be nervous on her wedding day,” Vlad observes and I shoot him my best death stare.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Mika goes still, head bent over his tablet, as always, but clearly listening. Is he worried for my well-being now that we’ve made friends? I wonder if I can’t convince him to help me somehow.
Then again, I’m not sure I’m willing to put him in the position of betraying the only parent figure he has in the world right now.
Vlad just chuckles, though. He doesn’t seem to have a temper; at least not with me.
The limo pulls up in front of a church and the stone sitting in my stomach sinks even lower. We are actually doing this.
“You think you’re going to get a priest to perform a wedding to a bride in a pink halter dress?” I ask. I’m so sick of this dress right now, I’d like to put it through a shredder. And Vlad hasn’t given me my freaking panties back, either.
Vlad smirks. “I have a white dress for you. And a woman to help you dress. All you have to do is walk down the aisle.”
I narrow my eyes. “I hate you.”
“As it should be between husband and wife.” He climbs out of the car and offers me a hand. I shake my head, but don’t bother commenting on his piss-poor view of love, women or marriage. My dress rides up as I scoot out and his blue eyes darken, following the hem up my thigh. I shake off his hand and yank the dress down.
The church is empty. At least I won’t be getting married in front of a crowd of people I don’t know. Vlad deposits me in a small room where an old lady waits. She bustles over to me, speaking in Russian.
“Five minutes,” Vlad tells me, then says something to the old woman in Russian. As he leaves, he points a threatening finger at me. “Try to escape and she’ll be punished for it.” He tips his head at the old woman.
My mouth drops open, heart beating faster.
It’s a bluff, I tell myself as he shuts the door. He wouldn’t hurt an old woman any more than he would hurt me. Or Mika. It’s just that he has my number now. He’s figured out I have compassion for the people around me and he’s manipulating me with it.
Still, I’m reluctant to call his bluff. I definitely don’t want an old woman facing his wrath.
The woman wears a dour expression and chatters at me in Russian, holding up a white bustier and panties and pushing me into the restroom.
Deducing she wants me to put on my undergarments in private, I go into the stall and shuck the halter dress. I showered in the tiny jet bathroom this morning, but it feels glorious to put on clean underclothing. The bustier and panties fit perfectly. How did Vlad know? He didn’t even have a bra to go off of.
I come out of the bathroom. The old woman holds up a wedding dress. It’s not bad as far as wedding dresses go. Definitely could be worse. It’s strapless with a simple satin bodice. A satin band trims the top and makes a flat bow in the back. The dress is fitted through the waist and hips and flares out at the ankles, the hem falling higher in front than in back.
My elderly attendant thrusts a cascading bouquet of pale pink roses in my hands, then squats down at my feet, arranging several shoeboxes beside her. She says something in Russian and holds up a pair of silver strappy sandals.
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t love them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She bobs her head and says something else, unboxing a simple pair of white satin pumps.
I look at the third box. “What else do you have there?”
She opens it. Strappy white satin sandals.
I point to the pumps. “Probably those. Let’s try them.”
She gets the gist and helps me into the shoes. They’re fine. Nothing special but they fit. As soon as they’re on, she hustles me out the door to the chapel.
The knot in my stomach moves up to my solar plexus, making it hard to breathe. I’m sweaty and freezing at once. Just a few days ago I was at my brothers’ double wedding lamenting I’d never have a love match like them. Even so I never dreamed my wedding would be like this. That I would be a captive bride in a foreign country.
This doesn’t matter. It isn’t real.
So I keep telling myself, but the sentimental part of me doesn’t believe it. This is a wedding. A church wedding in front of God and a Russian Orthodox priest, who can’t be that different from a Catholic priest.
There’s no one playing Here Comes the Bride for me to walk down the aisle. There’s no music at all. No guests, either, unless you count Mika and Vlad’s horde of security guys.
“What, no tux?” I ask when he meets me at the rear of the church. He ignores me, taking my elbow instead of offering his. “Where’s my headpiece? Seriously, I’m not getting married without a tiara. I thought I was your printsessa or whatever.”
Vlad’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at me. “You don’t need tiara, you already have shiny halo.” His accent’s grown thicker since we arrived in Russia.
I snort.
I can’t believe I’m walking down the aisle joking with my captor-slash-groom.
He stops in front of the priest, who waves the sign of the cross in front of us and chants in Russian.
There’s some talking. Some more talking.
Then, apparently the vows. The priest looks at me.
“Nyet,” I say firmly.
The priest ignores me and goes on with the ceremony. At least I think that’s what happens, but I can’t be sure since the whole thing is in Russian.
As I stand there, trembling beside the man who is apparently marrying me, it strikes me just how screwed I really am. Not speaking the language, being in a foreign country is a huge disadvantage. Especially considering how connected Vlad appears to be.
The priest says something else and Vlad cups the back of my head and pulls me in for a quick peck on the lips. It all happens so fast I don’t have a chance to fight it, and then it’s over.
Fuck.
I’m married.
I hiccup on a sob.
Vlad scoops me into his arms and carries me out of the church as I drag in stuttered breaths. No tears come. Just crazy, heaving, erratic sobs. The kind that sound like a drowning woman gasping for air.
Mika walks along beside us, throwing worried glances up at me. Vlad walks swiftly to the limo. One of his men opens the door for him. Instead of dropping me inside, he sits on the seat and pivots his legs in, keeping me in his arms.
Mika slides in across from us, his brows down, head low.
Vlad barks something in Russian to the driver and the limo leaves as I continue to struggle with my breath. My fake groom holds me on his lap and strokes my bare arms with a light, feathery touch. His brows are down, same as Mika’s, and he doesn’t look at me.
I stare out the window at the landscape flying by, hiccupping, feeling the last bit of my hope draining away.