Page 135 of Fierce Pursuit

Damien once told me that the love of a good woman didn’t make you weaker. It shifted your priorities.

Looking down at the sleeping goddess in my arms, I was starting to understand.

I wasn’t weaker for her.

She strengthened me.

For her, I would burn the world to ash.

For her, I would conquer nations, kill any man who dared touch her, topple governments if she so much as whispered a command. If her life was ever in danger, I would erase every last threat without hesitation.

But I would rather spend my time worshiping her.

Marina stirred in her sleep, pressing her tearstained face into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, my lips pressing against her forehead, savoring the feel of her body curled into mine.

My obsession.

My wife.

She would come to accept it. She’d have no choice. Running was no longer an option for her.

CHAPTER 38

MARINA

“It’s like it was made for you,” Yelena said as I stepped out of the dressing room.

I hated that she was right.

The boutique was small but luxurious, scented with expensive perfumes and fresh peonies, the kind of place where real brides came to choose the gown they’d dreamed of since childhood. The soft glow of crystal chandeliers bathed everything in warm, golden light. Plush carpets silenced my steps as I walked toward the raised platform, mirrors surrounding me on all sides.

And the dress. God, the dress.

It was stunning.

The delicate white lace was threaded with tiny, glimmering crystals, catching the light with every movement. The sheer bodice molded to my torso, illusion sleeves clinging to my arms in an elegant, almost ethereal way. It gave the impression of modesty—until my gaze flickered lower, where the sweetheart neckline showcased my cleavage, and the high slit promised stolen glimpses of mylegs with every step. The skirt flared in dramatic waves of lace and tulle, regal and impossibly perfect.

It fit as if it had been designed for my body alone. It made me look sensuous, made my legs seem longer, my curves more decadent.

If I were actually getting married, this would be the dress I’d want to wear.

A thick lump rose in my throat, tears burning behind my eyes, threatening to spill. Veronika should be here for this.

No.

I yanked the thought away before it could take root. It was ridiculous.

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I wasn’t a bride.

And yet, here I was, standing in an elegant boutique, dressed in white, surrounded by women who treated this moment as if it were something normal.

“This is stupid,” I said abruptly, my voice too sharp, the sound grating against the delicate atmosphere of the boutique.

“It’s not stupid,” Yelena said, hands on her hips. “I worked hard on that dress.”

“Not the dress,” I corrected quickly, shaking my head. “The dress is stunning.” I swallowed hard. “What’s stupid is that I’m the one wearing it. I’m not getting married today. Or any other day.”

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