Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I grip his arms tightly. “No, Slavochka. She won’t. In fact, I’m marrying her to ensure nothing bad ever happens to her. She’ll be safe here with us.”
The chin quivering stops, even as drops of moisture cling to his lower eyelashes, making them sparkle. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
“She’ll always stay with us?”
“Always.” Or at least as long as there’s breath in my body—but I’m not going to say that, lest he starts worrying about me dying as well.
He rewards me with a beaming smile, and the hammer hits my chest again, the pain reverberating deep. Only it’s a different pain this time, one I’ve learned to welcome. It’s hard to verbalize the way my son makes me feel; all I know is I can no longer imagine a life without him, without these powerful emotions that oftentimes feel like they’re tearing me apart.
Over the past two weeks, the tentative rapport we’ve established thanks to Chloe has deepened, our relationship changing to something I never thought I’d have… something that makes me wonder if another child, one with Chloe, would be so bad after all.
But no. I promised it would be her decision—and it has to be, if our child is to have any chance at overcoming the Molotov curse. I don’t want him raised by a mother who resents his very existence and tells him that everything he is disgusts her, that evil is a part of him and always will be.
I don’t want him to end up like my father.
Pushing that grim thought away, I smile back at Slava. “Let’s get you dressed and ready. It’s almost time for the wedding.”
Standing up, I extend my hand to him, and as his small fingers close trustingly around my palm, I feel more certain than ever that I’m doing the right thing… for myself, for Chloe, and for my son.
33
Chloe
We take our vows in the glass-walled terrace overlooking the ravine, where the mountain vistas provide an Instagram-worthy backdrop and the late-afternoon sun casts everything in a warm, golden light.
To an outsider, it would look like the most picture-perfect tiny wedding, right down to the music piping in through the ceiling speakers and the adorable tuxedo-clad child beaming in excitement to our right.
“Do you, Chloe Emmons, take Nikolai Molotov… your lawfully wedded husband… and to hold…” The priest’s words fade in and out, like a faulty radio broadcast, the white noise effect returning to create a constant hum in my ears. I’m vaguely aware of Alina standing next to me, unofficially playing the maid of honor, and of Pavel’s bear-like frame next to Nikolai. Is he his best man? Is that even a thing in Russia?
“I do,” I say when I realize the priest is silent and has been for a while. Nikolai has already said his part, so it’s just down to me.
Lyudmila, who’s holding Slava’s hand, says something to the boy in Russian as the priest smiles and says, “Now exchange the rings.”
We have rings?
Sure enough, Nikolai’s strong fingers are already gripping my right wrist. Turning my hand palm up, he places a plain gold band in the middle of it, then picks up my left hand and slides a delicate, diamond-encrusted gold circle onto my ring finger.
Huh. I guess we have rings.
Clumsily, I work the plain band onto Nikolai’s ring finger and look up. His eyes match the color of the precious metal on his hand, the scorching heat in them chasing away the white noise in my ears and bringing the proceedings into stark relief.
Holy fuck.
We just got married.
The man in front of me is now my husband.
“Congratulations. You may kiss the bride,” the priest says, and my heart lurches into overdrive as Nikolai tilts my face up and bends his head, a darkly satisfied smile playing on his lips as they descend on mine.
It’s a brief, almost platonic kiss, but there’s no mistaking the raw possessiveness in it, or in the way he clasps my hand afterward as he turns to face the flood of applause and congratulations coming our way. Even as everybody hugs us, he holds on to me, refusing to let go.
Finally, the adults back off, and Nikolai kneels in front of Slava, my hand still firmly in his grasp.
“Slavochka…” His tone is solemn, his English words carefully enunciated. “We’re a family now. Chloe is my wife—and your new mom.”
Okay, whoa. I was not expecting this. Shouldn’t we be easing into this? I don’t want Slava to resent me for taking his dead mother’s place. Sure, I’m technically his stepmom, but that doesn’t mean he can’t continue to think of me as Chloe for now, and later, when the timing’s right, we can—
My thoughts come to a screeching halt as Slava gives me the biggest, brightest grin and throws his short arms around my skirt, hugging my legs with all his strength.