SAY YOU ARE MINE

The Devil's Wedding Night

We’re married.

Not fake. Not for show. Real.

The Bratva didn’t need a church. They needed blood. Kieran’s blood, smeared on a blade. My blood, on a white cloth. Old laws. Old vows. _"Til death takes you from me."_

Death tried once. Failed.

Now we’re in his penthouse. Our penthouse. The same bed where he told me to sleep naked three weeks ago. Now there are rose petals. Black ones. Because the Devil doesn’t do white.

Kieran shuts the door. Locks it. The sound is final. Like the safe. Like the will.

He turns. And for the first time, Kieran Volkov looks nervous.

“I don’t…” He runs a hand through his hair. Messing up the perfection. “I don’t know how to do this.”

I stare. “You run the Moscow underworld. You’ve killed men with your bare hands. But a wedding night scares you?”

“It’s not the night that scares me.” He steps closer. His suit is gone. Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. Bandage visible on his shoulder. Healing. “It’s you.”

“Me?”

“You.” His finger traces my collarbone. Above the neckline of the red silk dress he bought. Not the cheap one from the warehouse. This one costs more than my old apartment. “You said yes. For real. No gun to your brother’s head. No bullet in my shoulder. Just… yes.”

“I meant it.”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “That’s what terrifies me.”

He drops to his knees. Again. Second time in one day. The _Pakhan_ of the Bratva. On his knees for me.

“Alina.” He takes my hands. Both of them. Like I’m the altar. “I’ve owned you since February 4th. I’ve had your body in my bed. Your name on my ring. Your blood on my hands.”

His thumb strokes my wedding band. Plain platinum. On the inside, engraved: _0204 – Mine._

“But I’ve never had you like this.” He looks up. Blue eyes open. Raw. “Not when you choose me. Not when you’re not scared. Not when you could walk away and you stay.”

“Kieran—”

“Let me do this right.” He stands. Slowly. His hands go to my waist. Barely touching. Like I’m glass. “One year ago I would have taken. Tonight, I ask.”

He leans down. His forehead rests against mine.

“Can I kiss my wife?”

The word _wife_ detonates in my chest.

“Yes,” I breathe.

His mouth finds mine.

It’s not the warehouse kiss. Violent. Claiming.

It’s not the gala kiss. Possessive. Public.

This is… reverent.

His lips move against mine like I’m something holy. His hands span my back, pulling me close but not trapping. One hand slides up. Into my hair. Cradling my skull like I’m precious.

I gasp. And he swallows it. Drinks it down like vodka.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black. But not with rage. With want.

“The dress,” he murmurs. “May I?”

I nod. Can’t speak.

His fingers find the zipper. He goes slow. Inch by inch. Like unwrapping a gift he’s waited his whole life for. The silk parts. Pools at my feet.

I’m not wearing the cheap white bra anymore. Black lace. His choice. Delivered this morning with a note: _For tonight. -K_

He makes a sound. Punched out. Wrecked. “_Bozhe moy._” _My God._

His gaze travels. Down my throat. Over the scars on my collarbone. Past the lace. To my stomach. My hips. My bare legs.

Then back to my face.

“You’re…” He swallows. “You’re going to kill me, _milaya_.”

“Good,” I whisper. Find my courage. My hands go to his shirt. To the buttons. “Your turn.”

He lets me. Stands still while I undo him. One button. Two. Three. The shirt falls open. The bandage is there. White against tattoos and scars. The wolf on his chest. The Cyrillic script over his ribs.

I lean in. Press my lips to the edge of the bandage. Soft. “Does it hurt?”

“Not when you touch me.” His hand fists in my hair. Not yanking. Holding. “Nothing hurts when you touch me.”

I push the shirt off his shoulders. It falls. He’s bare. And he’s mine.

He picks me up. Like I weigh nothing. Like he did in the elevator that first night. But this time he lays me down gentle. On black silk. On rose petals.

He follows. Braces himself over me on his good arm. So he doesn’t crush me. So he doesn’t hurt.

“Alina.” My name is a vow. “Last chance to run.”

I wrap my legs around his waist. Bring him closer. “I ran once. You caught me.”

“I’ll always catch you.”

“Then stop talking,” I tell him. “And love me.”

Something breaks in his face. The last wall. The _Pakhan_. The Devil. Gone.

Just Kieran.

Just mine.

He kisses me. And it’s everything.

Slow. Deep. Like we have forever. Because we do.

His hand slides down my side. Reverent. Mapping me. Like he’s memorizing. Like he can’t believe I’m real.

“Koroleva,” he breathes against my throat. _Queen._ “My queen.”

“Kieran,” I gasp. “Please—”

“I’ve got you.” He kisses the scar on my shoulder. The one from my father. “I’ve always got you.”

The rest is whispers. And heat. And the sound of my name on his lips like a prayer.

No fear. No debt. No deals.

Just us.

When it’s over, we’re tangled. Sweat and silk and his good arm banded around my waist, holding me to his chest. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

His lips brush my temple. “Sleep, _milaya_.”

“Bossy,” I mumble into his skin.

“Always.” His laugh rumbles through me. “Get used to it. You’ve got a lifetime.”

I’m drifting. Safe. Owned. Loved.

His voice, right before I sleep: “I’ve waited eight months for this. I’d wait eight more. Eighty.”

I smile.

“I know,” I whisper. “February 4th.”

His arms tighten.

“Mine,” he says. Not a question. Not a command.

A fact.

*END CHAPTER 7