My gaze shifts to the quiet nine-year-old boy, his dark curls falling softly around his forehead. His eyes remain fixed on the floor, and his small hand nervously grips his father’s large one.
Kirill leans down, whispering something to him, and only then does the boy glance up at me. His soft “hi” barely reaches my ears before his gaze falls back to the floor.
My heart swells and a lump forms in my throat. Something about him tugs at me, though I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
Maybe it’s because we both had mothers who decided we weren’t worth the effort, or because we were both born into circumstances we didn’t choose. Whatever it is, the urge to hold him, to wrap my arms around him and tell him it’s okay and his mother’s lack of love doesn’t define him, overwhelms me.
Konstantin’s arm falls over my shoulder as he whispers, “That’s my nephew, Lev. He has autism.”
Of course, I already knew that, but I pretend I didn’t, nodding in acknowledgment. “He’s sweet.”
“He’s a great boy.”
Glancing up, I catch Konstantin’s eyes. There’s a tenderness in them, a quiet adoration as he watches Lev, his expression filled with something raw and pure. And in this moment, seeing him like this—so open, so vulnerable in his love for this child—makes it just a little harder to hate him.
“Come, let’s eat,” he tells everyone, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Grabbing my hand, he leads the way to the opulent dining room, a long table set with more food than any one of us could ever stomach. The meal progresses beneath the awkwardness of an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of silverware clinking against porcelain.
None of the brothers offer much in the way of conversation, their attention focused elsewhere. It feels like I’m invisible to them, an unimportant detail, and I don’t know why it pisses me off so much. I can’t stop glancing at Konstantin beside me, sitting at the head of the table, composed with a quiet sense of ease surrounding him that I can’t quite grasp.
Does he notice how weird things are? Does he even care?
He looks over at everyone, his palm landing on my thigh, giving it a little squeeze. It’s then I know he did notice, and that quiet gesture puts me a little bit at ease.
“I’m glad we can all be here,” he says. “And I’m very happy youall have had the privilege to meet my beautiful wife.” Picking up my hand, he kisses the top of it, and shivers run through me. “I also wanted to take this opportunity to announce that in three days…”
I lift my glass of water and bring it to my lips.
“We’ll have a reception here at the estate to celebrate our marriage.”
The cup almost slips from my grasp, my mind catching up with his words.
“Oh, wow… Great,” I mutter.
The thought of some fancy reception, surrounded by strangers, makes my skin crawl. I didn’t sign up for this circus.
The brothers offer a congratulations that seems less than enthusiastic before Kirill says, “We must drink to the happy couple.”
His grin spreads, but there’s something sinister beneath the façade, his tattoos making him seem even more deadly.
“That’s a good idea.” Konstantin nods as one of the waitstaff starts pouring each one of us a shot.
When she’s about to pour me one, he shakes his head, and she returns to her spot in the corner of the room.
Kirill picks up his shot glass in the air, and everyone follows. “Za zdorovya i schastya. It means to health and happiness.”
His eyes go to mine, and I offer a small smile before they all swallow their drinks and pour another round. After that, it seems the air of awkwardness melts away. Even Anton looks at me, though it’s like he’s assessing me, which doesn’t make me feel any better.
Konstantin’s mouth drops to my ear. “You didn’t seem thrilled about the idea of a party. Do you not like parties?” His fingers lazily glide up my thigh past the hem of my red pencil dress, discreetly slipping between my thighs. “Maybe I can change your mind.”
My breath hitches as he slips a single digit past my panties, and I suppress a moan, shoving his hand away without catching the attention of his brothers.
“There are children present. Behave,” I whisper, and he lets out adeep-chested laugh.
“It’s hard to behave when you’re dressed to kill, Mrs. Marinova. Is that your intention? To kill your husband before you’ve had the chance to fall in love with him?”
My eyes slip to his, his words unnerving me.
