by Nicole Fox
“Besides, I’ve been thinking about it,” my father says, turning towards me and straightening my tie like I’m a little kid again. “This wedding could do big things for our family, but if it all becomes too much and Eve gives us any trouble, she’ll be easy enough to dispose of.”
My jaw clenches, and my hands close into fists inside my pockets.
“Pretty low stakes overall,” he says, as if killing Eve is nothing.
I want to wrap my hand around his neck and pin him to the wall. I want to make him take back his words. But it doesn’t matter. He won’t ever get the chance to hurt Eve. I won’t allow it.
“I need to finish getting ready,” I say, walking over to the door and pulling it open. “I’ll see you out there.”
Either he doesn’t notice my barely restrained anger or he doesn’t want to push me on my wedding day, but my father leaves without argument. Once he is gone, I try to conceal my gun in my tux, but it is too fitted. The holster doesn’t work with the fitted pants. But I don’t want to go out there unarmed. I know our men are checking everyone at the gates, and how much damage can Benedetto and two of his men really do when they are surrounded and vastly outnumbered by Volkov soldiers? Still, maybe I can at least keep my switchblade on me. Just in case.
Before I can reach for the blade sitting on top of the dresser, my door opens again. I turn, expecting it to be my father again, but instead, I see Eve.
She closes the door and presses herself against the back of it, and I’m frozen, staring at the curve of her legs sticking out beneath her tiny white silk slip. She looks like a dream. A dream I’ve been having every night for the last week. Now, there definitely isn’t room for anything else in my pants. I adjust my stance so Eve won’t notice.
The floor creaks, and she looks up and then yelps and claps both hands over her mouth. Her cheeks redden instantly. “I didn’t know you were in here.”
She grabs the doorknob, but I shake my head. “It’s okay. You can be in here.”
Her hand freezes and then falls, clapping against her skin. She seems to remember all at once that she is basically naked, and she tugs on the short hem of her slip, trying in vain to cover more of her skin. “I just needed a second away from…everyone. I thought you’d already be downstairs.”
“I was headed that way,” I say, admiring the soft waves in her chestnut brown hair and the pink stain on her lips. I pull my eyes away and blink, trying to keep my head clear. “Who was bothering you?”
“The hairdresser and the makeup artist and the designer,” she says, taking a few small steps into the room. “They’ve been manhandling me all morning.”
“You look beautiful.” The words are out of my mouth before I can draw them back. I quickly turn to assess my own appearance in the mirror again. Perhaps, if I pretend it is normal for me to comment on her appearance, she won’t notice it.
“Thank you,” she says softly. Apparently, I must sound welcoming because she crosses the room and moves to the window where my father was just standing. The daylight casts her in a silhouette, and I can’t help but focus on her pouty lips and the small slope of her nose. She takes a deep breath, releasing it in a shuddery inhale.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
She blinks, not looking away from the ceremony spread out on the lawn below. White chairs being filled by Volkov family and friends. I wonder if she can see her father in the crowd. “Yes.”
Should I tell her I’m nervous, too? Would that make her feel better or worse?
Eve turns to me, and she must read my confusion as something else because her eyes go wide. “But I’m not backing out. I know we made a deal, and I intend to keep it.”
“Okay.” I meet her eyes for a second and then spin around, open my top drawer, and pull out a flask. I twist the cap off and hold it out for her. “Care for a toast?”
She looks at the flask like it might be a trick, but then her mouth teases up into a smile and she walks towards me, hand outstretched. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
I hand it to her, our fingers brushing as she takes the flask and brings it to her mouth. Her lips pucker around the small opening, her chin lifting as she takes a quick drink.
“You already agreed to marry me,” I say with a shrug. “What else is left?”
Eve looks at me over the top of the flask. Hey eyebrows flick upwards in surprise, her cheeks redden, and she tips the flask back for another drink.
We both know what is left. What comes next. In fact, it’s hard to think about anything else with her so close to me in her tight silk slip. Part of me wonders whether she really thought I was already downstairs or whether she came in here dressed like that on purpose.
She stopped us from going all the way that night on the couch, but it wasn’t because she didn’t want it. I’ve been with enough women to know when they are into it, and Eve wanted it just as much as I did. So, maybe whatever stopped her doesn’t matter so much anymore. Maybe she came here to get what we’ve both been dancing around for days.
When Eve hands me the flask, I purposefully wrap my hand over hers, curling the pads of my fingers across her skin. She looks up at me and swallows a lump in her throat. I take the flask, but rather than pull away, I let my other hand rest on her shoulder. Eve’s breathing increases as my hand slides lower, finding her narrow waist. I take a step closer. When I look down, I can see her long eyelashes fluttering against her cheek, but I can also see her chest heaving against the material of her slip. The sight draws a soft sigh out of me.
“You should go get dressed if we’re going to make it on time,” I whisper, grabbing a handful of her slip and drawing her closer to me. Our hips collide. I don’t mind if we’re late. Honestly, I don’t mind if we miss the entire ceremony. Eloping is all the rage these days. We’ll send her father a picture from the chapel. That should be official enough for him.
Her hand touches my elbow, but otherwise, she doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak or pull away. She just stands there, looking unbelievable in what is essentially lingerie, and I can’t wait to peel it off of her.
“Eve?” A voice in the hallway echoes under the door and Eve grips my arm like someone is about to rip her away.
“Sounds like they’re looking for you,” I say, more than a little disappointment in my voice.
Eve groans. “I’m the bride. Aren’t I supposed to be the one making the demands?”
I would answer her, but as she talks, her body moves against mine, and I can’t focus on anything except the friction between us. After another quiet couple of seconds, she looks up at me, cheeks pink, and backs away.
“I better get out there before they start a search party,” she says, still tugging at the hem of her slip as if it will somehow grow another couple inches. I’m not sure why she acts like I haven’t seen her bare legs before. “I guess I’ll see you…down there.”
As soon as she is gone, I sit on the edge of the bed, try to think about anything other than Eve’s warm body sliding against mine. I need to wait to calm down. I can’t go down to the ceremony like this. The wedding may be a business arrangement, but the minister is real. I don’t want to offend him.
The wedding is picturesque. From my vantage point at the head of the aisle, it looks as real as any other wedding I’ve been to. The guests are smiling, glancing back towards the house to spot Eve, and there is a photographer snapping photos of me and the décor. A single cellist sits to the right of the altar, playing the pre-ceremony music. The wedding is small, so there are no groomsmen or bridesmaids, which suits me just fine. I can’t even think of who I’d ask to stand on the stage next to me, anyway.
I’m nervous. I try to ignore it, but my hands fidget in my pocket, and I wish I’d grabbed my switchblade. Not because I think I’ll need it but because I feel naked without it. I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere without a weapon on me. Most of the Volkov men in the crowd are armed to the teeth should anything go wrong, but that does little to make me feel bett
er. I’m one of the best-trained fighters in the family. I should have brought the switchblade and my gun, regardless of how ridiculous the bulge looked in my otherwise immaculate tux.
The photographer is crouching down in front of my father in the front row, snapping a picture of what appears to be a close up of his shoe. I want to tell the man to disappear until the end of the ceremony. The only reason I hired a photographer was to capture a professional photo of the kiss. We’ll have a marriage license, of course, but the kiss is the ceremonial sealing of the deal between the Volkovs and the Furinos, and I wanted it well-documented. It is why Eve’s father is here at all.
He is sitting in the front row on the bride’s side of the aisle, flanked on either side by his soldiers. I do my best not to look at him because every time I do, his casual smile makes me want to rip my shirt off like the Hulk and smash his face into the grass.
Do I want Benedetto Furino crying and weeping at my wedding to his daughter? No, of course not. Do I want him to at least acknowledge that his daughter is a courageous woman who is sacrificing herself for his sake? Yes.
So far, Benedetto has shown no sign that he understands all his daughter is giving up for his safety. She is signing away her future and her happiness to ensure our families can be at peace, and Benedetto doesn’t seem to care. Honestly, I might be more concerned for Eve’s wellbeing than he is. He as much as told me that I could do whatever I wanted to with Eve. Lucky for her, I’m trying to make the rest of our life together tolerable, at least. Though, truth be told, it is a lot easier to be nice to Eve than it is to anyone else. When I’m around her, I’m not filled with the same gnawing annoyance I feel when I’m around other people. Even when she is arguing with me, I don’t feel the rage I’m accustomed to. Just…desire.
That upsets me more than anything. How much I want her. It is involuntary and completely uncontrollable. I glance up at the window to my room where Eve was standing only thirty minutes before. I would have fucked her right there in full sight of everyone. I would have pressed her palms against the glass, pushed her silk slip up over her hips, and had my evil way with her while making direct eye contact with the minister standing at the altar.
I take a deep breath and push down the growing warmth in my belly. Tonight. I just need to make it through the wedding and at least a few minutes of the reception, and then we can go upstairs and finally, maybe, I’ll be able to get her out of my head.
The cell music fades away, pauses for a second, and then begins a new song. The wedding march.
I look to the end of the aisle, and Eve appears as though she just stepped out of the clouds. The day has been slightly overcast, but the sun breaks through the haze to shine down on her in full force, reflecting off her white dress and giving her an otherworldly glow. Her brown hair is pulled over one shoulder, falling in delicate waves, and the dress fits her like a glove. It cuts low across her chest, revealing the fine contours of her collarbone and her smooth golden skin. The straps wrap around the outside of her shoulders in a decidedly vintage look—though, thankfully, it is nothing like the poofy-sleeved eighties dress she tried to buy. The lace body is tight around her waist and hips, flaring out in soft ripples of fabric at her mid-thigh.
Every dirty thought I’ve ever had about her floods my mind, the mental images now involving me peeling her out of this dress, grabbing handfuls of this styled hair, and making those pink-stained lips part in pleasure. She is better than every fantasy I’ve ever imagined, and it is all I can do to stand still in place and not rush down the aisle to grab her.
Eve doesn’t look at the crowd as she walks. She doesn’t look at the Volkov members or her father. She doesn’t even look at me. Eve’s eyes bounce from the ground to someplace above my head nervously. Her cheeks are flushed with nerves, and her bouquet fidgets between her fingers. It is strange to see her so nervous. Usually, Eve is brave even when she should be afraid. She is bold when she should be meek. She is willing to stand up for herself and fight even when she should be surrendering. But walking down the aisle towards me, she looks shy, childlike.
As she gets closer, her steps get smaller and smaller until she stops altogether a few feet down the aisle. Finally, she looks at me. Yellow and green flecks are swimming in her wide caramel brown eyes. She is frozen, our eyes locked, and I can see that she needs my help. So, I step forward and offer my hand.
Eve looks at it for a moment, thinking, and then she places her small hand in mine and joins me at the altar.
Our vows are classic and simple. The wedding may be a business arrangement, but I mean what I say to her. Despite the ceremony being a show of power to the Furino mafia, I plan to do my best to make things right for Eve. To care for her and treat her with the respect she certainly never got from her father. I may not be a man capable of love, but I understand loyalty, and I will be loyal to Eve.
Finally, the minister takes a step back and smiles. “By the power vested in me by this state, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Luka, you may kiss your bride.”
Eve’s hand clings to mine, her fingernails nearly digging into my skin as I take a step towards her. This is the moment I’ve been thinking about all week. The moment when our deal is made official. But I’m not thinking about whether the photographer is in place to get the shot or whether Benedetto Furino is furious or embarrassed or watching at all. I’m not thinking about anyone else in the world except for Eve. She is my focus. Her lips are the only things that matter to me.
I’ve kissed her before, and I’ve been thinking about doing it again every moment since. She is like a drug in my system. One hit, and I’m hooked. This moment was supposed to be my victory over the Furinos, the moment when I show everyone that I am capable of leading after my father is gone, that I can carry on the Volkov name. But now it is intimate, and I can’t help but smile.
I hook an arm around Eve’s waist, bringing her body flush with mine, and my hand cups the back of her neck gently. I tip her head back, her smooth neck extending, her hair slipping back to fall behind her. She is beautiful and fragile in my arms, and I make a silent promise to myself not to break her. Not the way her father encouraged me to. Not the way I bragged I would. Eve is a wild creature, free and fierce, and I plan to earn her trust, not tame her.
I lean forward to press my lips to her and end the aching need in my chest, but the moment my eyes close, a loud crack rings out through the ceremony followed by screams.
We’re under attack.
Instinctively, I pull Eve up and behind me, blocking her from whatever threat has arrived. I look towards where Benedetto was sitting, expecting him or his men to be the source of the noise, but they are scrambling over toppled chairs, fighting to get away from the chaos. Wedding guests are dropping to the grass, hands over their heads. My men are pulling out their weapons, and for a second, I think they are aiming at me and Eve. But then I see the photographer. He is standing in the center of the aisle, but instead of a camera, he is holding a gun. The soldier closest to my father is bleeding on the ground.
Suddenly, the cellist throws his instrument to the side and levels a gun at my father, as well. He shoots, but one of the soldiers knocks my father to the ground before the bullet can find its mark. Volkov men begin firing back at the cellist just as a third shooter rounds the corner of the house with an assault rifle aimed at the assembly. He begins firing at random.
The world is chaos and gunfire and screaming.
Eve is cowering behind me, her fingers digging into my arms, and I shield her with my body and crouch low. The minister is cowering behind a wooden podium. I half-expect him to pull out a gun, as well, but his eyes are wide and terrified, and he is mumbling prayers under his breath.
“Stay here,” I say, pushing Eve to the ground next to the minister. She opens her mouth to argue, but there is no time.
I spin around, knock a lantern hanging from a pole to the ground, and yank the pole free of the ground. The end is sharpened into a stake, and I sprint forwar
d with the point out as if I’m jousting on a horse. The metal finds purchase between the ribs of the photographer. He manages one more shot at a Volkov soldier before the pole runs clean through his chest and the gun falls from his hands. Blood begins to flow down the pole at me, and I almost let go, but then I see the cellist advancing on me. I use the pole to maneuver the photographer in front of me, using him as a shield as the cellist fires shot after shot into him.
I can’t reach the gun the photographer dropped on the ground in front of me, so my only options are to step out from behind my human shield and try to tackle the shooter or hope he runs out of bullets soon. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, the shots stop. I wait a few seconds and then slowly stand up to see Eve standing on the corner of the small stage, holding a folding chair over her head. The cellist is lying on the ground, out cold.
I let the very dead photographer fall to the ground and leap over him to get to Eve. I take the gun from the cellist, grab her hand, and pull her along behind me as I take in the rest of the scene. The third shooter is still alive, though my men have his assault rifle, and he is pinned to the ground with his neck under a soldier’s foot. My father is unharmed and dusting off his clothes to the side of the folding chairs, soldiers circling him like he is the president—which, within our family, he kind of is.
Benedetto is still huddled down behind a row of chairs, his soldiers shielding him with their bodies. Once he realizes the shooting has stopped, he begins to stand up. Eve sighs when she sees him move, relieved, but she stays next to me.
“Who did this?” she asks, looking nervously at her father.
My father has the same thought. He charges across the grass, finger pointed at the vastly outnumbered Furino don. “You dirty son of a bitch. You orchestrated this.”
Benedetto holds up his hands and stumbles backwards. His soldiers stand in front of him, fists raised as if they stand a chance against my father’s armed guards.
