Page 68 of The Pakhan's Sold Bride

The sun is beating down from above us as we stand beneath the shade of the umbrellas provided by the church.

Everyone is solemn as they quietly watch his casket being lowered into the ground. My mother is crying, streams of tears flowing freely over her cheeks, turning her face red, her eyes swollen and painful to look at. She is grieving openly. She lost a man she truly loved and believes loved her, too.

My chest is tight, pulling my heart in different directions.

Today is about respecting someone who died. I might not like the man, but I do have great respect for my mother’s pain, and her loss is what I have come to honor and provide support for.

Miron, on the other hand, isn’t bothering to show his own father any respect at all. He isn’t even watching the casket as it disappears into the rich, dark hole, to be buried beneath freshly-dug earth.

I glance at him, and his eyes are tight on me.

He’s already made several comments to let me know that he has no doubt I am the reason his father died. That I was behind this ‘accident.’ He’s already vowed revenge.

I glare back at him, but when Lara shifts a little closer to me and wraps her arm around my waist, it pulls my attention back to where it is supposed to be. Honoring the passing of a life.

My mother’s sobs are breaking my heart, and I can’t engage with Miron now. It will hurt her even more if we fight at her husband’s funeral.

Ulyana’s gaze catches mine, and she pulls her mouth tight. I can see what she’s thinking in that one, quick look. She’shurting for our mother, but not sorry to see the man gone. She has her arm around our mother’s shoulders, holding her close, letting her grieve.

I am the one who identified the body, partially because I needed to see for myself that he really was dead and that this wasn’t some ploy or trick or part of a bigger plan they might have.

It was him.

His face was sliced open, grated over the road as he was launched through the front window of his car during the crash. One side of his face looked like him; the other side looked like it had been in a meat grinder.

I’ve seen what flesh looks like once it’s been in a meat grinder.

Swallowing hard, I push the image of his dead eyes out of my mind. The funeral director suggested a closed casket, and I insisted that my mother understood there wasn’t another option.

After he is lowered into the ground, Lara takes my hand and leads me away from the graveside, into the church where our family is hosting a memorial with food and drinks and photographs of Sergei propped against easels around the room.

It’s morbid.

Lara walks ahead of me, her hand locked in mine, leading me to the bar so that she can order me a vodka.

Her long black dress has a high slit in it. Every now and then, I see a glimpse of her creamy thigh before it disappears beneath a layer of soft, flowing black fabric.

She is becoming more confident with each passing day. She is growing into the role of being my wife, not missing a step, standing at my side, and saying all the right things.

She turns towards me, and my eyes trace over the black diamond choker I chose for her to wear today. It accentuates her collarbones and complements the long lace sleeves.

“Nestor?”

“Mm?” I say, distracted.

“Vodka, my love.”

She’s holding a glass towards me.

“Thank you.” I sigh in relief, letting the sharp liquid pour down my throat, and the burn eases some of my tension.

Lara leads me away from the bar to stand near the wall of white and black flowers.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, snuggling close against me.

“I’ll be much better when we get out of here.”

“Nestor Rostov, would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” a reporter asks politely. It’s a necessity to allow the vultures into the memorial. A select few, but still, vultures nonetheless.

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