She was his burden, and he wanted to let her go.
Fedya scoffed as he scratched his fake beard. Who was he kidding anyway? This was Cormac he was talking about. If he could rat out his own brother, he could do anything.
From a distance, Fedya could see all three figures becoming bolder as his car rumbled to a stop on the dirt road. He stepped out into the biting, howling wind, raging so forcefully that it slammed his door shut before he could get the chance. The weather was rather ominous that evening, and even though Fedya wasn’t one to believe in superstitions, he couldn’t deny the slightly uneasy feeling in his body that made each of his steps even heavier than the last.
Cormac wasn’t exactly the most reliable man in the world, and there was a good chance that he could, for some reason best known to him, decide to shoot Fedya in the face once the exchange had taken place.
Steel bones of trucks lined up behind Fedya’s car, each packed with carefully handpicked ammunition. Fedya had worked hard to make sure that the trackers inside the crates were virtually invisible?thin strips of nanotech embedded into the lining of the wood, sensitive enough to transmit movement across borders. His small team back in Moscow would monitor every shipment and relocation. He’d spent months tracking the Irish down, months arranging this exchange, for this opportunity, though he never in his wildest imagination thought it would come with a wedding ring.
His overcoat fluttered with the wind, collar turned high, a fedora shadowing the upper half of his face. His gloved hands jammed into his pockets as he made his way down the short, narrow path that led straight to them.
Cormac stood dramatically, with his back to the wind, an exquisite wool coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his lips lifted when he saw Fedya, his teeth gleaming with a notorious grin, like the interesting part of his day had finally arrived.
At his side stood a priest who was a head shorter than him, a nervous-looking man clutching his Bible like a weapon. And then beside them stood his bride, whose name he did not know.
The first time Fedya laid his eyes on her, he knew she was beautiful. It had only been three days, and yet, staring at her now felt as if he hadn’t seen her before. She stood draped in black lace, the intricate patterns clinging to every dip and soft curve of her body. A shawl-like scarf?the same lace?was wrapped around her head and neck, veiling her hair and casting soft shadows over her pale face. The greens in her eyes seemed darker, or maybe it was the thick, black makeup around her eyes; he couldn’t be sure.
But her gaze was cold, her posture stiff, her body unyielding to the harsh wind. She stood like a rock, unmovable. She stared at him like he was nothing, like he meant nothing, like none of this meant anything. And yet, there was something about her cold indifference, her blatantly rude stare, something hauntingly ethereal about this woman, as if she belonged more to shadow than flesh, beautiful in the way storms are beautiful just before they break.
“Jonathan Riley,” Cormac greeted, stepping forward, looking far too pleased to see him. “You’re right on time. I was afraid we might have to cancel the whole thing if you showed up any minute later than now.”
Fedya took off his fedora before taking Cormac’s hand. He nodded curtly. “Don.”
“Please, we’re family now,” Cormac said, glancing at his daughter. “Cormac is just fine.”
Turning to her, he said, “Maeve, where are your manners?”
So that’s her name, Fedya thought.Maeve.
Maeve.
Maeve.
Maeve.
The name lingered on his lips, and they moved noiselessly, feeling the quiet syllables on his tongue.Maeve. He liked her name. He wanted to say it out loud, wanted her to respond to the sound of her name from his mouth.
Maeve remained silent, staring at Fedya with barely disguised hostility. She wasn’t doing anything to hide her disgust for him, her disrespect, her hate. Fedya was a little amused if he was being honest. Even without saying a word, her emotionswere volatile and palpable, and he couldn’t blame her for it. Her father was marrying her off to a stranger after all. She had every right to be mad.
A muscle in Cormac’s jaw ticked imperceptibly, a clear indication that he hated his daughter’s disrespect. Yet, he seemed to be generous today, because he let her go without a scolding, and he turned back to Fedya with another grin.
“Forgive her. She’s a little bit salty about the sudden union,” Cormac said. “Our women are docile, respectful, and they know how to play their roles effectively. Despite her ignorant first impression—or second, rather—she has been trained in the way. You will enjoy her.”
Fedya didn’t like the way Cormac said those last four words. You will enjoy her. Like she was a piece of meat.
“Father Brennan,” Cormac called, turning to the priest, who quickly adjusted himself.
“There’s a chapel,” he offered, gesturing behind a rise in the hills where a small white building stood, its cross weathered and crooked.
“No.” That was Maeve. Her voice startled Fedya a little on the inside. “Here.”
Fedya looked back at her, at the thin line she’d set her lips to, at the deviant look clouding her eyes. The wind whipped at her dress, threatening to blow her shawl away, but her grip on it was strong.
Cormac raised a brow of disapproval. “That’s your husband’s decision to make. Not yours.”
Her words were acid. “He isnotmy husband.”
“Yet,” Fedya corrected. Her eyes snapped to his, and her jaw clenched. Without looking away from her, he said to the priest. “Let’s do it here.”
