Filthy Promises: Chapter 56

I don’t get nervous.

It’s not in my DNA. Nervousness implies uncertainty, and uncertainty invites weakness.

Yet here I stand, at the altar of our hastily arranged wedding, and my hands won’t stop fucking trembling.

The string quartet plays the same section of music for the third time. A not-so-subtle signal that something’s wrong. That the bride is late.

Or, perhaps, not coming at all.

Arkady shifts beside me, a questioning look on his face. My best man—my oldest friend—who’s never seen me like this before.

“She’ll be here,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t sound convinced.

I adjust my cufflinks. “Maybe,” I say, my voice unnaturally tight. “Maybe not.”

I gave her the choice. Told her she had an out. An Akopov man never gives outs, but I gave one to her. Because I love her enough to let her go.

Even if it destroys me.

The guests shift uncomfortably in their seats. A mix of Bratva captains and lieutenants on my side, looking deadly even in their formal wear. On Rowan’s side, the few friends from her life who passed our security screening.

Not Natalie, of course. That bridge burned to ash when Rowan discovered the truth.

“Should I check on her?” Arkady asks.

“No. We wait. She deserves that much.”

Five more minutes pass. The longest five minutes of my life.

Then the music changes.

The bridal march begins.

My heart stops and restarts and pounds so hard I swear everyone must hear it echoing against the high ceiling of this private chapel.

The doors at the back swing open.

And there. She. Is.

Rowan stands in the doorway, an angelic vision in ivory silk that hugs the growing curve of her stomach. Her hair is swept up, tiny diamonds glittering like stars against the caramel strands. Her face is partially hidden behind a wisp of veil, but I can see enough.

She came.

She fucking came.

It’s fitting that I see her like this, standing on a threshold. It’s fitting that, this time, I’m the uncertain one.

Two doorways.

Two moments that changed everything.

The first time, I winked at her. This time, as she looks at me across the crowd, across the distance, through veils and tears and promises made and broken, it’s her turn.

Rowan winks.

And as she does, something cracks open inside my chest. The purest, rawest, most indescribable thing I’ve ever felt. Joy and fear and sorrow and hope, so much fucking hope.

It hurts, this feeling. Like my heart’s grown three sizes too big for the space it’s been assigned.

With each step she takes toward me, I remind myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Basic fucking shit that suddenly requires conscious effort.

When she reaches the altar, her mother, who came from the hospital to escort her daughter down the aisle, squeezes her hand, then steps back one step shy of the steps.

That feels deliberate. It puts a smile on my face.

There’s no one to give her away. Rowan gives herself away, strong and proud and entirely her own.

When she’s finally close enough, I reach for her veil with trembling fingers, lifting it back to see her face clearly for the first time. Those green eyes meet mine.

“You came,” I whisper.

“I came,” she says.

The officiant begins the ceremony, but I barely hear the words. I’m too busy memorizing every detail of this moment.

“I do,” she says.

“I do,” I echo.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant declares. “You may kiss the bride.”

I pause, suddenly uncertain. We’ve barely touched since she returned to me, sleeping in separate wings, keeping careful distance.

But now, with everyone watching, I don’t know what she wants.

Rowan makes the decision for me. She steps forward, rising onto her tiptoes, and presses her lips to mine.

It’s a chaste kiss. Briefer than I’d like.

But it’s real.

It’s a promise, maybe.

A beginning.

When we turn to face our guests, my arm slides protectively around her waist. Mine to protect now. Mine to cherish. Mine to love, if she’ll let me.

“Mrs. Akopov,” I murmur against her hair as we walk back down the aisle.

“That’s going to take some getting used to,” she whispers back. But she doesn’t pull away.

The reception is held in the grand ballroom of the family estate. Everything gleams—crystal, silver, the polished wood of the dance floor. Security is tight, with men positioned at every entrance and exit, watching for threats.

Rowan’s mother approaches us first with tears streaming down her face. She looks better than she did a month ago—fuller cheeks, more color, stronger. The treatment is working.

“I never thought I’d live to see this day,” she says, embracing her daughter. “My baby, married.”

“Mom, stop,” Rowan laughs, but I see the tears in her eyes, too. “You’re going to make me cry and ruin my makeup.”

Margaret St. Clair turns to me then, studying me with eyes so like her daughter’s. “Take care of her,” she says simply. “She deserves the world.”

“She’ll have it,” I promise. “Whatever she wants.”

For the rest of the reception, I keep Rowan close, my hand at the small of her back as we greet guests. Many approach with gifts—envelopes of cash, jewelry, rare bottles of vodka. Traditional Bratva wedding presents, along with the whispered respect due to the future pakhan and his bride.

For as long as it lasts, I allow myself to believe this might work. That we might find our way back to what we had before. That I might earn her trust again, her love again.

I should’ve known the moment wouldn’t last long.

“Boss.”

Arkady’s voice cuts through my thoughts. His tone is all wrong.

I turn to find him standing at my elbow, his face carefully neutral, but his eyes telling a different story.

“What?” I ask quietly.

“You need to see this.” He inclines his head subtly toward the gift table. “Arrived just now.”

I excuse myself from Rowan’s side, telling her I’ll be right back. She nods, already deep in conversation with another guest.

At the gift table, Arkady points to a box. Plain cardboard, no wrapping. Not like the other gifts. On top is a card, sealed with wax pressed with a familiar crest.

The Solovyov family crest.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Who brought this in?”

“Delivery man,” Arkady says grimly. “Got past the first checkpoint with a fake uniform. Dima is questioning him now, but I doubt he knows shit. Just a messenger.”

I take the card, breaking the seal to read the message inside.

To the happy couple. May your union be blessed with all the joy you deserve.

The words themselves are innocuous enough. But this is no friendly gesture. It’s a message. The Solovyovs found a hole in our security on my wedding day. They got close enough to deliver this.

Which means they could get close enough to deliver something far worse.

“The box,” I say quietly. “Have you checked it?”

“X-rayed. Nothing explosive. But…”

“But?”

Arkady hesitates. “You should see for yourself.”

I open the box carefully, pulling back the flaps to reveal what’s inside.

A baby’s rattle. Silver, antique. Beautiful…

… and completely soaked in what can only be blood.

Rage rises in me so fast and hot that for a moment, I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t think beyond the overwhelming need to destroy whoever dared threaten my child. My wife.

“Get the box out of here,” I growl. “And post extra men around Rowan. Discreetly.”

“Already done.” Arkady takes the box and slides it under his jacket. Then he glances at my wife. “Should we tell her?”

I glance across the room to where Rowan stands, radiant in her wedding gown, one hand resting protectively over our child as she speaks with her mother.

She’s smiling—really smiling—for the first time in weeks.

“No,” I decide. “Not today. This is her wedding day. She deserves at least that much joy.”

“And tomorrow?”

I turn back to him, my decision already made. “Tomorrow, we send a message back to the Solovyovs. One they won’t forget.”

Arkady nods. There will be blood for this. A lot of it. None of it mine or Rowan’s.

I return to my wife’s side, schooling my features into something resembling calm. She turns to me, that smile still lighting her face, and something twists painfully in my chest.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

I take her hand and bring it to my lips. “Perfect,” I lie. “Just some business that can wait until tomorrow.”

“No business today,” she says firmly. “Today is just about us.”

“Just about us,” I agree, pulling her closer. “My wife.”

As the evening wears on, I keep her within arm’s reach at all times. I dance with her when tradition demands it, and if I hold her more tightly than necessary, well, no one but me will know why.

But the whole time, my eyes constantly scan the room, the doors, the windows. Looking for threats. Always looking.

When it’s time to cut the cake, I stand behind her, my front pressed to her back as we hold the knife together. I breathe in the scent of her hair, feel the warmth of her body against mine, and make a silent vow.

I’ll spill every last drop of blood in my veins to keep them safe.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Rowan asks as we drift back to our table, plates of cake in hand.

I look down at her—my bride, my weakness, my strength—and force a smile. “Just thinking how beautiful you look. How lucky I am.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Vincent Akopov.”

“On the contrary,” I reply softly, “I’m an excellent liar. Just not with you.”

She laughs at that. “Fair enough. So what’s really going on in that head of yours?”

I hesitate, then give her as much truth as I dare. “I’m thinking about how much I want to protect you. How I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

“I know you would.” She places her hand over mine on the table. “That’s why I’m here.”

For the second time today, something cracks open inside me—something I thought was already broken beyond repair. But as I look into my wife’s eyes, I realize I was wrong.

It was never broken. Just… waiting. Waiting for her to come back. Waiting for a chance to begin again.

I lean forward, pressing my forehead to hers. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For coming today. For giving me a second chance.” I swallow hard. “For being braver than I deserve.”

She tilts her face up, brushing her lips against mine in a kiss so soft it’s barely there at all. “Don’t make me regret it,” she whispers.

“Never.”

Even as I make the promise, though, my eyes drift to where Arkady stands near the exit, the box containing the bloody rattle now hidden from sight.

I won’t let Rowan regret marrying me. And that means I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe—even things she can never know about.

Even things that might make her hate me all over again.