Now, THIS is the wedding of everyone’s dreams.
Lucya…
“It’s nearly time, sweetheart.”
I smile at my mother in the mirror, putting on my lipstick. “I’m ready.”
“It’s so quiet in here,” she muses, tucking a rebellious curl back into my chignon. “A nice change.”
Neither one of us wants to say anything about that horrible day. Alexi nearly punched Damien in the mouth for uttering the sentence, “Lucya’s first wedding.” I convinced Alexi before he beat up his poor brother that that ceremony meant nothing, since I’d always been his.
This time, we’re getting married in a small ceremony at the Smolny Cathedral, my favorite church in St. Petersburg. It has all the magnificent spires and stained-glass windows, but the gold and blue theme of the church is elegant without being overwhelming.
The only two people in the room with me are Mother and Alexi’s sister Irina. “The quiet is nice,” Irina agreed. “The crowd in the bride’s room the last- well, anyway, it was overwhelming, yes? And we get to consume all these tasty treats on our own.”
She grabs another fistful of grapes off the platter, grinning at me. I mourned what I’d never had with Inessa until Irina showed me what sisterhood truly meant.
The windows in the room look out on the front of the church, where a small stream of people are entering the cathedral. We’ve invited the remaining Four Families, of course, and other close allies, but it’s not the ridiculous spectacle like before.
“Here, let’s get your dress straightened up a bit,” Mother said, finishing up the last of the tiny pearl buttons on the back of the dress. It’s a simple gauze overlay with a white silk dress underneath. The seamstress had to let out the waist. At any other time, I would have been panicked, certain that I was gaining weight and hearing the taunts of ‘Lucya the Snow Monster!’ in my head.
There’s no room for that mean little voice anymore. I’m not afraid of the extra weight. Not when it means my body is preparing for our baby.
There’s a knock on the door and I can hear Nikolai’s plaintive voice. “I’m here to bring Lucya to the wedding service. Please tell me you are all dressed or Alexi will shoot me in the face.”
Irina is laughing unsympathetically as she opens the door. “That is highly likely, but I’ll be happy to report this was all conducted quite properly if you give me your Lamborghini for a month.”
He gasps dramatically. “You would really risk my life just to blackmail me for my favorite car?”
“Yes,” she agrees with no shame at all.
Irina and I are going to be besties.
She leaves quietly and Mother fusses with my veil for a moment. “This is the wedding I’d always hoped for you,” she says. “You were never flashy, I knew you’d hate something large and pretentious. But the man waiting for you at the altar is the thing that truly matters. Most arranged marriages don’t turn into love matches. When I married your father, he was essentially a stranger. I was fortunate that we fell in love with each other.
“Your love for Alexi, and his for you is almost palpable,” she smiles, touching my cheek. “It’s like capturing lightning in a jar, what you two have.”
Blinking furiously, I try to keep the tears away, there’s no time to re-do my makeup. “I wish Otets was here.”
She hums for a moment, her vision growing distant. “I believe he is. Now, go to your husband.”
Nikolai is still waiting patiently in the hallway, straightening with a smile when he sees me. “Now this is the wedding that should have been,” he says approvingly, offering his arm to me.
“Thank you for saving Alexi. For everything you did,” I say, trying to avoid getting all weepy and emotional. “You are the best brother anyone could have.”
“Eh,” he shrugs, walking me down the hall, “I’m an ordinary man with an unsatisfactory golf handicap and a shoulder that still aches like a bastard after Dr. Turgenev dug a bullet out of it.”
That does the trick, drying my eyes and making me laugh all the way to the massive wood and iron doors, the last thing to stand between me and the man I’ve loved forever.
All the things that seemed so ugly and profane in the last ceremony take on the beauty now that I’d always hoped for; the candles, the crowns, the binding of the bridal cloth.
As the Bishop asks, “Are you marrying of your own free will, having not promised yourselves to another?” I answer him so quickly that I cut off the last part of his question. There’s a ripple of laughter through the audience, it’s kind, though. These people know what we’ve endured to be together.
The music soars up to the gloriously gilded ceiling, there’s so much light here, so many grins and even the Bishop is fighting a smile, trying to keep his regal demeanor. But I smile. I laugh. I can’t help it.
Alexi is magnificent in his black tux, fitting perfectly over his massive shoulders. The scar on his face has faded, giving him a rakish look that suits him, and when he looks down at me, his polar eyes have warmed to a cerulean blue.
When he leans down, I know he’s going to attempt to be gentle with me, careful. I rise on my toes to meet him, our first kiss as husband and wife is awkward, lips bumping against each other, laughing and joyful.
This man is mine. The Angel of Death has given me life.
Alexi…
“How much longer?” I ask, gritting my teeth and nodding at yet another fucking toast.
“Now brother,” Nikolai says, “you’re Russian. What part of this surprises you? Your best bet is to let them keep toasting your happy union until they’re too drunk to notice you and Lucya slipping away.”
Glancing over at Lucya, I see the same restlessness and desperation in her eyes. We’re holding our reception on the grounds of the Turgenev estate, and it is beautiful, lights strung through the trees to remind my wife of our rooftop at home, the scent of lavender and azaleas. Lucya’s mother had suggested roses and my wife violently shook her head.
“No, I can’t smell roses and peonies again,” she nearly gagged. “Not for a long time.” There are still scars my wife carries from when she believed I was dead. I can be patient.
It doesn’t take long for our guests to notice that Lucya is drinking sparkling water, and meaningful smiles are shared with us.
“Your guests have been asking if there is another reason congratulations might be in order,” Damien says. “What should I tell them?”
“Tell them to fuck off,” I say pleasantly. We are not subtle, I know this. Her hand rests protectively on her abdomen more than I think she’s aware, and I can’t help but press my palm there too, even though I know it’s too early to feel anything. But we want some time for us before the rest of the world knows.
Nikolai finally takes pity on us. “Friends, honored guests, it is time for the happy couple to leave, preferably before Alexi stabs me.” There’s a ripple of laughter through the crowd, though they do know that is a real possibility. He turns to us with a smile, raising his glass. “The kiss makes the bitter drink sweet,” he says, “Gorko!”
“Gorko!” our guests shout, and I kiss my wife until she’s weak in the knees and I’m holding her upright.
“Time to go, wife,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers.
“Yes, please.” Her eyes are beautiful, translucent, and glowing with happiness.
When Lucya and I drove off in a Bentley that my idiot brothers insisted on decorating with streamers, they thought I was taking my bride to our hunting lodge by Lake Ladoga.
“Where are we going?” she asked as we pass the highway leading to the lake.
“I’m certain that Nikolai and Damien ‘decorated’ the lodge,” I say dryly. “If drunk or foolish enough, they might even chance a surprise visit. Because stabbing my brothers would put a damper on our honeymoon, leaving the country seems the wisest choice.”
She’s trying to smother her laughter. “I feel very guilty laughing when you’re talking about murdering your poor brothers.”
“Oh, they’ve both done enough to deserve it,” I assure her. “I’m taking you to the Turgenev yacht, which I ordered to be docked in Naples. Even those two assholes can’t track us in the middle of the Mediterranean.”
Gathering up the acres of fabric from the skirt of her dress, Lucya crawls over me, straddling my lap. “I am very happy with the idea of being alone with you.”
“And I, you,” I say, giving her a long kiss. “But right now you’re going back where you were with your seatbelt securely fastened.”
She pouts at me adorably, and I put her hand on my cock. “I’ve been hard for the last hour, hummingbird. I’m being the responsible one here and I’m not enjoying it at all.”
It takes every ounce of self-control that I possess to keep myself from debauching my wife on the way to the private airfield where I keep my jet. I strap her into her seat for takeoff. By the time we’re in the air and the pilot opens the mic, I’m white-knuckled.
“Mr. and Mrs. Turgenev, many good wishes for your happiness. You may remove your seatbelts and move freely about-”
I’ve already got my bride thrown over my shoulder and I’m heading for the bedroom at the back of my jet.
“How much time do we have before we land?” Lucya laughs.
“Three and a half hours,” I say, throwing her skirt up over her face and ripping away her gauzy excuse for underwear.
“Then let’s make it count,” she laughs before choking as I fasten my mouth over her center.
“Fuck, I have missed this,” I groan, drawing her clit into my mouth and sucking slightly harder than is comfortable for her, but she still tightens her thighs around my head.
“I’ve dreamt of this,” she confesses, “you dragging me kicking and screaming into an orgasm and then starting all over again.”
It takes no time at all to pull her first orgasm from her.
Sliding my finger through her wet slit, I paint the number one on her thigh. “That’s one, hummingbird.”
Spreading her knees wide, I slide two fingers inside her, curling them and rubbing hard against that sensitive little patch on her silky walls. “Come for me again, love. Be a good girl.”
She does, trembling and gripping my shirt, trying to ground herself. I paint another mark on her other thigh. “That’s two.”
Lucya’s eyes are wide and shocked, but the flood of slick from her tells me how much she’s enjoying it. “Can- can orgasm number three be from you inside me?” she gasps, and it’s so fucking erotic that I nearly come right then.
Gripping my erection hard enough to hurt, my head drops between her breasts as I try to control myself. Ripping open my pants, I throw her legs over my elbows, holding them there as I notch my cock just inside her.
She’s shaking a little, from nerves, excitement perhaps. But her eyes are bright and she arches up enough to kiss my neck. “Please, husband? I’m running out of dirty talk and I-”
I push inside her.
“Oh, like that,” she sighs.
I have to move slowly for the first few strokes, getting her body to open for me. When she’s stretched enough to accommodate me, Lucya arches her hips up and I pound inside her, groaning at the feel of her, how her perfect little cunt grips me. She’s tearing at my tuxedo shirt, popping the ebony studs loose, and running her hands over my chest.
Putting my hand against her throat and squeezing gently, I warn her. “I’m not going to last.”
“Then make it three,” she whispers, biting my shoulder.
My sweet wife is spectacular at dirty talk.
