I glare at the cake, which is a marzipan square decorated with big-eyed bunnies climbing all over the sides. The fucking Lapin Cretin and his whole Raving Rabbids family.
“It’s white,” Ilya says defensively. “It’s all the bakery had in white.”
“If we pull off the rabbits,” Anton says, “it might not be so bad.”
A knock falls on the door. Adami pops her head around the frame. “It’s time.”
An attack of nerves like I’ve never had, not even on a job, tightens my gut.
“Here.” Ilya hands me the ring. “We better go. You don’t want Mina to arrive before us.”
I slip the ring into my pocket. At least this is the one thing Ilya got right. It’s a beautiful stone, deep red and perfectly cut, set in rose-gold and surrounded by smaller rubies.
My heart stampedes like a runaway bull as we make our way to the small chapel where visitors and patients go to pray. The chapel was Adami’s idea. I was adamant about bringing Mina there in a wheelchair, but my girl didn’t want to hear about it. She insisted on walking in by herself, gunshot wound or not. She’s a tough princess.
Hanna and the priest are already there. Hanna hugs me when I kiss her cheek. Since neither Ilya nor I had thought about flowers, Anton picked some in the garden—cornflowers and white violets tied with a blue ribbon one of the nurses provided.
I take my place at the small altar with Anton and Ilya flanking me. When Adami opens the door, I turn to face my bride.
Dressed in a short, white, A-line dress with a whimsical boa feather collar, Mina looks like a vision, the sum of my dreams come true. She’s perfect, down to her white clinic slippers. My throat goes dry, my chest feeling like it’s about to burst from the emotions inside. Ilya wouldn’t let me see the dress before this. I have to admit, he did great. Even if he forgot shoes for Mina, too. Not that it matters what she wears. A potato sack would’ve been perfect.
Anton rushes forward and hands Mina the makeshift bouquet before offering his arm to lead her down the aisle. As she walks toward me, straight and proud despite her injury, my past and future fall away. All that has been and will be turns inconsequential in the enormity of the moment, the moment in which she freely chooses to become mine.
I give up on containing my emotions. What I feel is too much for any man to conceal. I let it flow, let her smile light up my life and give meaning to my existence. I let her invade my soul and take my heart prisoner. She’s sublime. Beautiful. Sheer perfection.
The priest says what priests say at wedding ceremonies, but I hardly hear the words. I’m too aware of Mina’s small body and how good it feels where our sides touch. I’m too aware of her smell and the warmth of her skin when I grip her delicate hand and slide the ring over her finger. The ruby is red like the blood she shed for me, red like my love for her.
“I do,” she says, and my world turns just right.
She’s mine.
For the rest of our lives.
Epilogue: Mina Prague, 3 Years Later
The view over Prague is magnificent. The restaurant is on the hill next to the castle, showcasing the domed copper rooftops that dominate the cityscape like a scene straight from a fairy tale. The only sight more beautiful than the one below is the man sitting across from me.
Yan brushes back his dark hair with a big, masculine hand. The gesture is innocent, but when I remember what those hands are capable of, a spark lights in my belly. The way his jacket fits his broad shoulders kindles that spark into a flame. His eyes are alight with the knowledge of what he does to me, and the fire in those jade-green depths is a promise of what will happen later at our apartment.
I appreciate that he kept the place. It holds memories for me. Fond ones.
When the waiter has poured the champagne, Yan clinks his glass against mine. “To three years.”
“Three years,” I echo.
Three years in remission. It hasn’t always been easy, but true to his word, Yan was there for me. He told me I was strong when I was physically weak. He told me I was beautiful when I lost all my hair. He fed and bathed me. He held and comforted me. We celebrated the small milestones together. Then the bigger ones. He fought and rejoiced with me. He held me when I had my nightmares. He still does, although these days they’re less frequent. He didn’t spare any expenses with the medical care at our Mozambican home. He hired a whole team to take care of Hanna and me, to cook and clean and nurse us. He never left my side. Not once. He was my rock when Hanna quietly passed away in her sleep last year. The hole her absence left still hurts, but sharing my grief with Yan makes it more bearable.
Leaning over the table, he grips a lock of my shoulder-length hair and lets it slide through his fingers. It’s a seductive touch, one that makes me press my knees together under the table to still the ache between my legs.
“I like the dress,” he says in a low voice, brushing a finger along the curve of my neck to my shoulder. Goosebumps follow in the wake of his touch.
He should like it. He bought it. The dress is very feminine, a lace-over-silk creation that falls mid-thigh.
I give him a heated look. “I like us.”
“Do you now?” His timbre is rough, lustful.
“We said we were going sightseeing this afternoon,” I remind him with a smile. So far, we haven’t seen much
