Chapter 3 Bound by Blood

Adriana's POV

The church smelled like dying roses and cold stone.

I stood in the tiny room behind the altar, my dress stiff and heavy around me. Lace bit into my skin. The veil, a suffocating cloud over my head, blurred the world into soft shapes I didn't want to see clearly anyway.

Someone knocked once, sharp and hard, before pushing the door open.

Ivan.

Of course.

He didn't say anything at first. He just leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a shadow cutting across the old wood floor.

"You look like you're ready for a funeral," he said finally.

I turned to face him, my movements stiff. "Maybe I am."

His mouth twitched, but not into a smile. He wore black. Not the elegant kind either - no silk, no shine. Just black, heavy fabric like a soldier before a battle. His tie was knotted perfectly, but it looked like a noose around his throat.

"I suppose we both are," he said.

A shiver crawled up my spine. I hated that he could guess my thoughts so easily. Hated that somehow, we were standing on the same ground even when I wanted to tear him apart.

The priest called from beyond the door, his voice echoing down the empty hallway.

"It's time."

Ivan stepped aside, letting me walk out first.

The hallway stretched out in front of me, long and cold. Every step I took echoed off the stone walls like gunshots.

When I reached the double doors, they swung open, and a wave of heat and noise hit me.

Hundreds of faces.

Some curious.

Some resentful.

Some hungry, like wolves smelling blood.

I caught sight of my father near the front pew. His nod was slight, almost invisible. A reminder.

A threat.

I locked my knees to keep from running.

Ivan appeared beside me, his hand closing lightly around my wrist, guiding me forward. His touch was firm but not cruel.

We walked together, side by side.

Enemies pretending to be lovers.

War dressed in white.

The priest droned on, his voice a flat hum against the roar in my ears. I barely heard the words.

Love.

Honor.

Obey.

Obey.

My stomach twisted.

When it was time for the vows, Ivan spoke first. His voice didn't shake. He sounded like he was making a business deal. Cold. Certain.

Then it was my turn.

The church seemed to lean closer, holding its breath.

"I do," I said, my voice steady even as my heart kicked against my ribs like a trapped thing.

The priest smiled thinly and asked for the rings.

Ivan slipped the band onto my finger - a thick, heavy thing that felt more like a shackle than a promise. His hands were warm. Steady. Mine shook a little when I pushed the matching ring onto his.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest said.

Ivan leaned down, slow, giving me a chance to pull away.

I didn't.

His lips brushed mine - soft at first, barely there. A whisper of a kiss meant for the crowd, not for me.

But then something shifted. His hand came up to cup my jaw, and for a second - just a second - it wasn't an act.

Heat flashed between us, sharp and confusing.

I hated him.

I hated him.

And yet.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine like he was looking for something he wasn't sure he wanted to find.

The applause shattered the moment. Loud. Hollow. Forced.

We turned together to face the crowd, wearing matching masks.

It was done.

I was his.

He was mine.

For better or worse.

Mostly worse.

We left the church in a storm of rose petals and false smiles. I barely noticed the black cars waiting at the curb. Ivan guided me toward the front one, the one with bulletproof windows and doors that weighed as much as a coffin lid.

He opened the door for me. I hesitated just a second too long.

"Get in," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "Or they'll start asking questions."

I slid inside.

He followed, the door slamming shut with a final, echoing thud.

The car started moving before I even fastened my seatbelt. The driver was one of Ivan's men - hard-eyed, silent, wearing a gun like it was part of his skin.

We didn't speak at first. The car hummed around us, the city flashing by in broken, dirty pieces through the window.

"You did well," Ivan said after a while.

I turned my head to glare at him. "Don't talk to me like I'm one of your soldiers."

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "You're not. Soldiers don't scare me the way you do."

I didn't have time to decide whether that was a compliment or an insult.

Because the next second, the world exploded.

A deafening crack - glass shattering - tires screeching.

The car jolted hard, throwing me against Ivan's side.

Shouts filled the air. More gunfire.

Ivan cursed under his breath and shoved me down, covering my body with his own.

"Stay down!" he barked.

I barely heard him over the ringing in my ears.

Another blast - closer this time - and the car rocked violently. Somewhere ahead of us, another vehicle slammed into the sidewalk, smoke pouring from under the hood.

I struggled to move, to see, but Ivan's weight pinned me to the seat.

"Move and you're dead," he growled into my ear.

The car skidded into an alley, tires squealing, metal grinding against stone. The driver barked something in Russian. Ivan answered in the same sharp, brutal language.

A second later, the car screeched to a halt.

Ivan threw the door open and hauled me out.

The world outside was chaos. Smoke filled the alley, thick and choking. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

Ivan kept a firm grip on my wrist, dragging me after him. We ducked into a crumbling doorway just as another round of gunfire split the air.

"Stay quiet," he said, pressing me against the wall.

I wanted to scream at him. Hit him. Run.

But I wasn't stupid.

I stayed still, my chest heaving, my fingers digging into the rough brick behind me.

Ivan peered around the corner, his body tense, coiled tight like a striking snake.

"Whoever it was," he muttered, "they're not amateurs."

"No kidding," I snapped.

He glanced down at me, and for the first time, I saw a crack in the armor. Worry.

Not for himself.

For me.