Page 201 of Nine Months to Love
Ivory chairs stand regimented in flawless lines, their linen skirts brushing dewy grass. Lining the rows are sprays of roses in crimson and cream. Above me, fairy lights float like constellations brought within arms’ reach just for the day. The breeze carries hints of jasmine and citrus, undercut by the green bite of crushed stems. My cufflink catches a stray sunbeam as I flex my hand.
It’s crazy, this hand. It’s tattooed and scarred, and for a long time—averyfucking long time—it knew only one thing: how to hurt. It signed contracts that doomed my enemies to fail and it put guns to those same enemies’ heads and pulled the trigger. It’s been blood-soaked. It’s been bruised and battered.
Now, it’s being put to a different purpose. It’ll wear a ring that means something more than everything else I’ve ever done put together.
I’m ready for that new life.
I stand at the altar and try not to fidget. Taras is beside me, dressed in a suit that actually fits for once. He catches me adjusting my cuffs for the third time and smirks.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“You sure? You look a little nervous to me.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs. “Relax. She’s not going to run.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
I glare at him. “Yes.”
But the truth is, I’m not worried about Olivia running. I’m worried about everything else. The ceremony. The vows. I’m about to stand in front of people and promise forever to someone.
Forever used to be a threat. Now, it’s the only thing I want.
The music starts. A string quartet tucked into the corner of the garden stirs to life and the melodic voice of their instruments fills the air. Everyone stands and turns toward the house.
And then she appears.
My breath seizes in my chest.
She’s wearing a white dress that flows around her like liquid light. No veil, no train, no lace, nothing fancy. Just her, barefoot in the grass, one hand resting on her swollen belly.
It’s the most perfect fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Babushka walks beside her, arm linked through hers. Elena is still recovering, still moving slower than she’d like, but she insisted on doing this. “I’m walking my future granddaughter down the aisle,” she’d snapped when I suggested perhaps we find her a comfortable seat for the ceremony. “Even if I have to crawl. Now, stop nagging me, or I’ll hit you with my cane and then we’ll see who’s crawling.”
They make their way toward me. Olivia’s eyes never leave mine. And in that moment, nothing else exists. Not the guests. Not the flowers. Not the past or the future.
Just her.
When they reach the altar, Babushka kisses Olivia’s cheek, then mine. “Don’t screw this up,” she whispers in my ear. “I know where you live.”
Then, with a wink, she takes her seat. Olivia steps up beside me and I clasp her hands.
Taras clears his throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today?—”
“Skip the formalities,” I interrupt.
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Did I fucking stutter?”
“Fine, sheesh. You think you’d be in a better mood today of all days, but I guess not...” He flips to a different page in the small book he’s holding. “Let’s see… skip that, skip that, skip… Here we go. Do you, Stefan Safonov, take Olivia Aster to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
