Chapter 2: Beautiful Scar: Chapter 2

“Give her some space. Water, get her some water. Back the fuck off and let the girl fucking breathe.”

Someone’s holding me.

That’s probably not good.

Why am I on the floor right now?

The carpet is scratchy and weird.

Big, powerful arms and a broad, muscular chest grip me tight, which is actually kind of nice. I like the way he smells too: sharp and masculine with a musky edge and a whiskey undertone.

My eyes flutter open, and I’m staring at the ugliest mural I’ve ever seen in my life.

Naked babies in thong diapers shoot arrows at pale, dead-looking winged ladies.

Cherubs. Angels. Right.

I’m in a stinking church.

“Here, pisik,” a voice whispers. It’s low and smooth, like velvet down my cheek. “Drink a little bit.”

A cold bottle of water presses to my lips, and I take a few sips.

“There you go. That’s a good girl.”

My chest patters and my stomach twists. Good girl? God, I really like hearing that. I must still be only half-awake because something flutters between my legs. I drink some more, just to please the big man with the good voice.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, and I twist around.

And suddenly I’m very much aware of what’s happening.

The stranger I’m supposed to marry is kneeling at my side, my shoulders in his lap, one arm wrapped protectively around me.

Dangerously close to my breasts.

There’s a semi-circle of curious faces nearby: Dad and Evan, both looking equally horrified; Valentin Zeitsev; other members of the Bratva; and some Brotherhood men as well. One leans over and murmurs to Valentin, and both stare in my direction.

“Don’t worry about them,” the man whispers. He offers more water, and I turn him down.

“What happened?”

“You tripped and landed on your face.”

“Oh.” I reach up and touch my nose. I wiggle it a little. “Doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s good. Tough little kitten.” He reaches up and brushes a thumb down my scar. My spine tingles, and I stare at him, mouth hanging open. “Pretty thing too.”

“My scar? Pretty?” I’m having trouble making sense of that. It’s mostly covered with foundation right now, but it’s visible up close. Most people pretend like it doesn’t exist. They’ll look at anything but the ugly patch of puckered skin running from my cheekbone to my jaw.

But this guy just touched it like it’s nothing.

“Very pretty. Means you’ve been through something.”

“Hard for me to see it that way.” I adjust myself so I can see him better. I can’t tell if this guy’s full of crap or what. “Are you the person I’m supposed to marry?”

He nods slightly. His eyes sparkle with amusement and mischief for a moment before he quickly composes his face. Hard mask back in place. What’s he hiding from?

“My name’s Tigran.”

“I’m Dasha. Honestly, I never do this.”

“Get married? Me neither.”

“No, I mean faint.”

“I have that effect on women.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking, but that cool expression is difficult to read. Who the heck is this guy? And why do I like being so close to him, even though I haven’t been touched by someone outside of my family in forever?

He’s comforting me. He’s protecting me. And I like that.

It was the way he brushed his thumb down my scar.

Like it was no big deal. Like he really thinks it’s pretty.

That’s not a word I’ve heard someone use to describe my disfigurement before.

There’s just something raw and attractive about him.

My father comes forward. “Dashenka, darling, maybe we should⁠—”

“Give the girl a fucking moment,” Tigran snarls, staring at my father with undisguised loathing. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had prepared her.”

“You don’t understand,” Dad says, looking strangely afraid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him scared before in my life. Who is this man I’m going to marry? My father’s not afraid of anyone. “It had to be this way.”

I open my mouth to defend him. Dad had no other choice. If he’d told me sooner, I would’ve found a way to run. It’s true, I’m crazy. I’m a shut-in, a weirdo, a creep. Didn’t you know that? Everyone else does.

But I say nothing. I know I’m supposed to speak up for my family, but for the first time in a while, I can’t make myself follow the rules.

Not when it feels like my father so thoroughly shattered them already.

Screw my dad. Let him feel bad. He freaking deserves it.

“Tigran, brother, we do need to get moving.” The other man from earlier kneels down and nods at me. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” I shuffle away from Tigran and sit up. “I’m just a little dizzy, that’s all.”

“Arsen, maybe we can postpone.” Tigran’s jaw works. “This wasn’t done well.”

“It’s now or never,” Arsen says, sounding regretful. “Help your new wife to her feet and support her. Let’s get this over with.”

Tigran’s hands are strong and firm as he takes me by the arms. It’s like I’m nothing as he lifts me up and sets me down. I wobble in my ridiculous heels, and he steadies me. The man’s a rock in a churning sea.

Stupid freaking shoes.

I should’ve worn sweats.

There are eyes on me, so many eyes staring. Embarrassment flushes my skin. At least a dozen more people are waiting in the pews. They’re watching, their attention crushing me.

But I keep coming back to him.

My future husband.

He’s got a raw, vicious look to him. Like the suit he’s wearing barely hides the killer underneath. His skin’s covered in dark stubble, and his eyes are a deep, deadly brown. I like his hands most of all: big, gnarled, callused from use. His full lips press into a hard line as he gently helps guide me to the end of the aisle and positions me across from him in front of a bewildered-looking old priest.

My scar tingles where he touched it.

“Let’s get this done,” Tigran says firmly.

The priest sputters awkwardly about love and devotion and begins to read from the Bible while I stare at my future husband. My father stands behind me while Arsen is behind Tigran. The room’s smoky and silent, and there are no smiles in sight. It’s like they’re attending a funeral instead of a wedding.

Which is how it feels for me.

I don’t know how I’m going to survive this. Panic swells up again. My breath starts coming faster, and Tigran’s expression hardens as he stares at me. Oh, god, I’m upsetting him already. I’m going to ruin this marriage before it even begins, and what’ll happen to me then?

I can’t let down Dad, and I definitely can’t fail the pakhan.

“Keep breathing,” Tigran murmurs to me. He reaches out and takes my hands in his. “Watch me, pisik. Me and me only.”

I bite my lip hard enough to hurt and stare at him. His eyes are a deep chocolate brown with little tinges of honey at the edges. They’re beautiful, so different from light-colored Russian ones. I’m used to blues, so many ice blues, but he’s not like the men I grew up with.

He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. His skin’s a deep tan. His lips are a soft pink. I hold his gaze, and it should be painful as hell. I can’t remember the last time I held eye contact with a total stranger.

But for some reason, it calms me down. Not all the way—I’m still freaking out—but enough that I don’t fall down on my face again.

“Vows now, pisik,” he whispers, hands squeezing mine. “Almost finished.”

I nod meekly, feeling small and silly. I’m the tiniest person in this stupid room. Any one of these men could crush me. Except I feel safe with Tigran’s hands in mine.

“Do you, Dasha, take Tigran to be your husband? Do you promise to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health? Will you love and honor him all the days of your life?”

“I do,” I say, even if it’s not true. Love him? Honor him? I don’t even know this man.

The priest repeats the vows for Tigran, and he nods sharply. “I do,” he says, and I want to throw up.

“By the power vested in me by the state of Pennsylvania and by our Lord God, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may, uh, kiss the bride?”

I blink rapidly. Tigran steps forward, wrapping me in his arms. I let out a soft yelp, my hands pressed to his chest. I think I’m going to push him back, but holy shit, he’s got some serious muscles, and his arms are like iron bars. I shiver, remembering another cage, but it’s too late to stop this.

“Just for show,” he says before he presses his lips to mine.

Just for show, I think, as my brain glitches and his taste floods my mouth.

Forget some chaste church kiss—this is pure blistering heat and domination.

His tongue slips against mine as I get hints of coffee and whiskey. I’m pulled closer to him, into his strength and warmth, and I let out an actual freaking whimper, even though my dad’s like two feet away.

Our mouths are intertwined, and I don’t think I could stop this if I wanted to, which I absolutely don’t.

The kiss wrecks me. I feel shaky and trembling all over. His lips linger, nipping at me gently, and then there’s clapping. The men watching finally wake up, and Tigran’s lips are gone, leaving me barren.

Holy mother of god.

That was incredible.

If that was just for show, then what would the real thing be like?

I’m dragged down from the altar. Tigran leads the way along the aisle, pausing to accept congratulations. I nod to some of the men I recognize from the Bratva. Evan’s stony glare lurks off in the pews, but he doesn’t approach. I’m betting he’s as pissed as I should be.

“Now it’s done,” Tigran says once we’re in the front entry hall. Valentin and Arsen come out next, followed by my dad. He’s lingering off to the side like he’s not even a part of this anymore.

I want to go to him. I want him to make me understand. Why me? Why now? What’s going to happen to me? I’ve barely left his house in over a decade, and suddenly I’m being torn out of my life and thrown into something new.

Something worse.

“Congratulations on your new wife,” Valentin says and turns to me. “I trust you’ll make the Bratva proud?”

“I’ll try,” I murmur, even though I’d rather kick and scream and spit. This is how I make it through. Keep quiet. Keep my head down.

“Good. When will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Tigran looks at me. His hand still grips mine. “I’ll let her pack and say her goodbyes first.”

“Goodbye?” I look up, heart racing all over again. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“You’re moving into my house in Baltimore.” Tigran’s jaw works. “You really should have been told.”

With that, my life is truly over.

Tigran drags me from the church, bundles me into a car, and drives me away.