Page 90 of Scarlet Chains
I wake to the sensation of Osip’s fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare shoulder, his breath warm against my neck as he whispers, “Today,malen’kiy, you become my wife. Again.”
Again.
Because the hospital chapel ceremony, beautiful as it was, belonged to necessity and grief. Today belongs to joy.
I roll over to face him, drinking in the sight of my husband—my husband— in the soft dawn light. His hair is disheveled from sleep, his usual careful composure abandoned in these quiet moments before the world intrudes. There’s something boyish about him like this, vulnerable in ways he’d never allow anyone else to see.
“Any second thoughts?” I ask, though I’m teasing. We’re past the point of doubt, past the place where uncertainty could live between us.
His answer comes in the form of his mouth against mine, a kiss that tastes like forever and promises kept. When we break apart, his eyes hold that storm-cloud intensity that still makes my pulse race.
“The only thought I have,” he murmurs, “is how long I’ve waited for this moment without knowing I was waiting.”
This moment.
Not just the wedding, but the peace that comes with it. The settled certainty that we’ve built something beautiful from the wreckage of our separate tragedies.
The house hums with activity even at this early hour. From downstairs, I can hear the controlled chaos of wedding preparations— caterers arranging tables in the garden, floristsweaving magic with hundreds of white roses and trailing greenery, Melor’s voice carrying instructions in rapid-fire Russian as he coordinates the small army of vendors who will transform our Budapest home into something out of a fairytale.
Slava’s delighted laughter echoes through the halls as he “helps” by chasing the ribbon streamers that flutter in the morning breeze. At almost two and a half, he’s appointed himself supervisor of all wedding activities, his tiny hands constantly reaching for shiny objects and his vocabulary expanding to include important words like “pretty” and “flower” and “Mama’s dress.”
Mama’s dress.
The word “Mama” still sends a thrill through me every time he says it. This impossible, beautiful child who came to us through such darkness, who calls me Mama now with the same natural ease he reserves for “juice” and “more cookies” and “up, please.”
“I should get moving,” I say, though I make no effort to leave the warm circle of Osip’s arms. “Your brothers will kill us both if we’re late to our own wedding.”
“Let them try.” His mouth curves into that dangerous smile that reminds me exactly why half of Budapest whispers about the Russian who bought The Scarlet Fox. “I have plans for you before you become officially untouchable.”
“Untouchable?” I arch an eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Since you’ll be wearing a dress that cost an obscene amount, surrounded by flowers that took three florists to arrange, in front of guests who will expect us to behave like civilized human beings.”
“Civilized human beings?” I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest where happiness lives now. “And after the wedding?”
“After the wedding,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that makes my stomach flip, “I plan to very thoroughly celebrate having you as my wife.”
Heat floods through me at the promise in his words, but before I can respond, Slava’s voice carries up the stairs in a tone that suggests imminent mischief.
“Mama! Papa! Flowers everywhere!”
Osip sighs and releases me, but not before pressing one more kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Our son has discovered the florists.”
Our son.
Another phrase that never loses its power to amaze me. The boy we saved, who saved us in return, who binds us together in ways that go beyond romance into something foundational and permanent.
The next few hours pass in a whirlwind of controlled chaos that somehow resolves into perfection. My dress hangs in the bedroom like captured moonlight— layers of silk and lace that flow like water, with delicate beadwork that catches the light with every breath. It’s nothing like the simple dress I wore to the hospital ceremony. This is a gown fit for the kind of wedding that exists in childhood dreams of happily ever after.
And then, there’s Eszter.
Our beautiful daughter, born despite the odds stacked against her.
She sleeps peacefully in her bassinet, three months old and blissfully unaware that today marks the official beginning of our family. She’s perfect in the way that babies are perfect— all possibility and promise, with Osip’s dark hair and my stubborn chin and a grip strong enough to hold onto fingers and hearts with equal determination.
“She looks like you,” Mom says from her chair by the window, where she’s been supervising the final touches tomy hair and makeup. The experimental treatment worked—actuallyworked— and though she’s still regaining her strength, the cancer is gone. The word ‘remission’ has never sounded more beautiful.
“She looks like herself,” I correct, adjusting the delicate necklace Osip gave me this morning— antique pearls that belonged to his grandmother, the only family heirloom that survived his parents’ deaths. “Perfect and new and completely herself.”
