Page 144 of Fierce Pursuit

Then—he smiled.

A slow, dangerous smile that sent ice through my veins.

And in that moment, I knew.

I hadn’t won.

I had only just begun to lose.

Kostya’s grip crushed my hands, his fingers pressing hard enough to make my bones ache as the priest draped his stole over our joined hands, binding us together in yet another solemn, meaningless blessing.

Angry tears burned behind my eyes.

Above me, the gilded angels and saints stared down in judgment, their painted eyes fixed on me, condemning my very presence in this sacred place.

I had never been particularly religious, but in that moment, I felt the weight of their scrutiny.

Were they judging me for refusing to be the quiet, obedient woman the church expected me to be? Was I being condemned for fighting when I was supposed to bow my head and submit?

Or were they judging me for something far worse?

For swearing up and down that I would never let this happen, only to stand here now, trapped in white lace, bound to a man who had been married to my sister?

Hell, maybe these sainted hypocrites were lookingdown on me for daring to wear white at all, as if purity had ever been something I claimed to have.

Fuck them.

And fuck Kostya too.

I was so lost in my fury, so focused on the painted ceiling above me, that I didn’t even hear the priest’s final words.

Didn’t hear him announce the one thing I swore I would never allow.

"Man and wife."

I only registered what had happened when Kostya’s arm wrapped around my waist, and he pulled me into him.

His lips slammed onto mine, claiming them in a kiss that was meant to solidify his victory.

I refused to kiss him back.

It was the last shred of defiance I had left.

But Kostya? That arrogant bastard?

He took that from me too.

With a firm grip, he swept me back into a dramatic dip, forcing my body against his. The movement caught me off guard, and when I gasped in surprise, he seized the opportunity—his tongue sliding past my lips, invading, dominating, kissing me until I gave into it.

Maybe it was the champagne.

Maybe it was the sheer force of him, the way his mouth swallowed every protest, the way his body knew mine, knew exactly how to pull a response from me even in anger.

Even through my hate, my body betrayed me.

My heart pounded.

My head swam.

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