He only nods, and I close the door behind me, pressing my forehead to the cool wood.
For now, I let myself believe I am safe here, in this impossible space between enemy and lover, captive and queen. For now, it is enough.
In the bathroom, I lean over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain, letting the cold water run over my wrists until my pulse settles.
My thighs ache, my lips are bruised, and my whole body feels marked by him. I can still smell him on my skin. Amberand clean, threaded with sweat and something darker. The ache between my legs is a constant reminder of what just happened, how fully I gave myself over.
For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe, willing myself not to fall apart. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him.
Even now, every cell in my body is tuned to his touch.
I clean myself up quickly, fixing my hair, smoothing out the lines of my dress as best I can. I look in the mirror and hardly recognize the woman there.
Chapter Sixteen - Adrian
The cathedral stands cold and silent beneath a sky the color of steel, its stone walls ancient and impenetrable. Built by my father for blood pacts, not for blessings, it has seen more violence than grace, more secrets than prayers.
Its windows rise like watchful eyes over the winter-bare courtyard, and inside, shadows gather in every corner, softening the light from the flickering rows of candles that line the altar.
The ceremony is small. Private. Not a celebration, not really. Just a ritual to mark a shift in power, a new arrangement for the house of Sharov. Only the trusted are present: Miroslav, silent as always; a handful of elders, each one armed even in church; Yelena, absent and pointedly so; the old priest who has presided over every oath, every deal, every funeral in this family for as long as I can remember.
Talia stands beside me at the altar. She wears a dress of pale satin, cream rather than white—simple, elegant, clinging to the curves I know by touch now. She wears no veil. No flowers. No smile.
Her hair falls in dark waves over her shoulders, wild and unbound. She stands like a shadow, eyes forward, her hands steady but her jaw tight with what she will not say.
My hand never leaves the small of her back. I anchor her to me, a silent promise… or a warning. She is here because I have claimed her, because I have demanded it, because I will not let her slip from my grasp now that the world has seen her at my side.
My thumb circles the soft silk at her waist, grounding us both as the priest’s voice rises and falls in the old Russian cadence of our ancestors.
The air in the cathedral is thick with incense and memory. The elders sit in the front pews, hard faced, watching with a mixture of suspicion and resignation. Outside, armed men guard every door. Nothing happens here by accident.
I do not pray. I do not ask for mercy. I watch Talia as the priest intones the ancient vows, the words carved out over centuries of loyalty and betrayal. She mouths them in return, lips moving with care, her voice a whisper beneath the echoes.
I watch the shape of her mouth as she says them: for better, for worse…
She doesn’t flinch until he says forever.
It’s barely there: a tightening at her eyes, a subtle stiffening of her spine, as if the word has cut through all her composure, reminding her that this is not a game she can leave, not a lie she can untell. My hand presses firmer against her back, and for a moment, her gaze flickers to me, searching for something. Understanding, maybe.
Or escape.
I do not let her go. I squeeze her side, a silent message:you are mine. This is not only a pact between us but a shield for both of us, a wall against the dangers circling beyond these stone walls. I do not fool myself. I know what I am doing, and what I am risking.
The priest offers the rings. They are plain, heavy, yellow gold. I slip one onto her finger, watching the way it glints against her skin. My own ring feels colder than iron as she fits it onto my hand. Our fingers tangle for a moment longer than the ritual demands.
The old man’s voice booms out: “Let no one break what is bound here today.”
He looks at each of us in turn, gaze sharp, unforgiving. The congregation does not cheer, does not clap. They simply nod, acknowledging what has been done.
When the priest finishes, Talia stands perfectly still, her eyes trained somewhere past the altar, mouth set in a line that could be pain, or pride, or simply exhaustion. I lean in, brushing my lips against her temple—soft, careful, more claim than comfort.
For a moment, I let myself wish that it meant more. That this was not only a pact of necessity and control, a bond forged from survival and strategy. I have never been a man who believes in happy endings. The ring is cold on my hand, but the woman beside me is warm.
We walk down the aisle together, my hand still at her back, guiding her past the stares of the elders, through the shadows that have seen so much blood and betrayal. The doors swing open, and the cold hits us, sharp and bracing. The world waits, full of threats and promises.
I look at her as we descend the cathedral steps, her face pale but proud, her chin high despite the tremor I can feel in her body. She glances at me then, her eyes bright with defiance and something that aches to be softer, to be free.
“Are you ready?” I murmur, my mouth close to her ear, my hand tightening just enough to remind her—remind myself—that we are bound now, by blood, by danger, by something neither of us dares to name.