Page 103 of Captive Vows
“You do. You have sharp instincts to survive. If it comes down to choosing people you’d trust in our home and near our son, you’ll choose according to that survivalist instinct.”
That was a macabre take on it, but I supposed he was right.
“Still, it’s a lot to handle right now,” I protested. I leaned against him, setting my hands on his chest to better reach up and kiss him. “On our wedding day.”
He smiled, kissing me deeper. “Then wait until tomorrow.”
We had enough staff to get by. Yet, I wanted to start my life as an officially married woman not having to deal with anything that felt like work.
Right then, Andre cried to be fed, and I laughed to myself.
Who am I kidding?
I most definitely had a job now. I was working to be the best mother possible, learning my way as I went. It was undoubtedly the most important job I’d ever have, and I relished the freedom to experience it with Luka. With all these Dubinin men who’d protect us.
After tonight, I’d also work to be the best wife to the one and only Dubinin boss, too. It might have seemed cruel to say he was a job, but it was true. Every relationship required work. With how we’d fought before and stayed apart in the house for so long, I now knew that being together meant compromising and setting aside pride. We’d both work on it.
Later that evening, despite having cleared out most of the staff in the mansion, Luka and I prepared to get married. Because of the drama and danger that seemed to cling to me whenever I dared to set foot outside the house, I didn’t want to go big. I didn’t want to deal with a ceremony at all, actually. The smaller, the better. The more intimate, the better.
I wasn’t in the mood for some huge wedding. Andre was only a month old and with him entering the throes of cluster feeding as he grew so quickly, I wasn’t in any state of mind to leave himwith a nanny. Breastfeeding had come naturally to me, and for him, so it wasn’t like I’d have any milk to leave with a sitter.
Luka was insistent that we marry sooner than later, though. It saddened me that even like this, it was a legal matter or a transaction. To marry me so the whole world would know not to mess with me. As Mrs. Dubinin, I would be granted the utmost security.
But I already was. I was safe in his home, behind his doors and with his men around us.
I understood the image of it, the symbolism, and for that reason, I was fine with hurrying to marry.
In a dream world, we could’ve spent time to plan and make it more of a celebration than covering the bases for a technicality.
He was my dream, though. I’d wanted for so long to count on someone to support me and love me, and he handled both of those tasks expertly.
Andre was my dream too. Having a child was a blessing I would never take for granted. Every morning—or, truly, all through the night when he woke me—I got up with the gratitude that I was lucky enough to be able to call him my son. Each night, I fell asleep with the love and warmth of knowing I would always do my best by him.
No drive-by shooting would snatch my life and make him grow up without a mother.
No spineless, greedy person like Miguel would call himself a father and pawn him off.
Luka and I would always be there for Andre—and for any other children we could be so fortunate to have.
But tonight, it was aboutus. About me and him and our love.
“Ready?” Allen asked as he entered the room after a knock.
Emil stepped in with him, smiling as he looked at me in the bridal gown. “Damn.”
I was just happy it fit. Losing the baby weight was a weird process so far. Breastfeeding had me slimmer than I thought I’d be, from burning so many calories like that.
I smiled wryly. I couldn’t help but be amused that he and I were getting along this far. I trusted him. But still, the memory of how he’d helped to kidnap me lingered.
“Thanks,” I replied, knowing he was praising me. He would never be a man of many words, but I was fine with calling him my family now too.
“I’m still not going to call you my stepmom,” he said as he escorted me out of my room to meet Luka in the ballroom downstairs.
“I’m not calling you my stepson either,” I quipped.
“It wouldn’t make sense,” he added.
“No, it wouldn’t.” I was younger than him, so that alone made it weird.
