Chapter 4 She fucking fainted on me!

Maksim 'Misha' Malchov

'You want to marry her? Come the fuck on! She is your sister for heaven's sake. There has to be a way for you to protect her without doing this,'

Plus she's five-foot-three and you're what... six-foot-five? You'll crush her in bed.

I size my future bride as she's strutting towards me in her wedding dress.

The satin and tulle fabric clings to her waist and hips before falling into a flowing skirt, the slit running scandalously high exposing one of her tanned thighs. The neckline dips low enough to reveal the swell of her tits that look so perfect and round.

Red hair. Those wild red curls that always begged to be tamed have been straightened into a smooth cascade that flows down to the middle of her neck like a sheet of fire.

Her eyes capture mine. They say eyes are the windows to the souls but when my gaze crushes with her heterochromic eyes, all I see is something else. The contrast between her piercing cold on her blue eyes and the fiery brown dancing in her emerald eye that's now tilting to a golden-brown color.

God she is stunning.

But she didn't belong to the Malchov family.

Until one day Papa came home with his new family. Only that she didn't come alone–she tagged along with her five year old daughter.

At first she was quiet, always lingering in her room playing with her dolls. But that never lasted for long before she grew to this wild card.

A fireball of reckless energy who preferred climbing trees over sitting still, who ran through the fields with the boys, wrestling them to the ground, her laughter echoing across the property like she owned the world.

A tomboy with scraped knees and defiance in her bones. She detested wearing those pink and achingly flowery dresses her mother made her wear.

Her mother's authoritarian rule and my constant glares should have kept her in line.

But she was somehow immune to both.

We could blame that on Father-he was always coddling her, always indulging her chaos.

All it took was a simple flutter of her lashes or a small pout... and he would cave instantly.

Then, ten years later-

Everything burned. One Christmas dinner. One night. Our entire bloodline was erased in a single bloody massacre. Somehow miraculously only me and her survived the ordeal.

But I had to keep it a secret. I couldn't risk our enemies knowing that there were survivors of the Malchov's empire.

So I made the only decision that mattered.

I sent her away.

A loyal family in the United States–the Morozovs and one of the crime families in New York–owed us a debt. They took her in, raised her, kept her hidden while I took a secret identity and rebuilt what remained of the Malchov empire.

I cut contact with her completely.

No calls.

No visits.

Nothing, while I lay low back in Russia. I enlisted in the army where I trained as I took my time to investigate the vicious mole who dared attack our-

"Sir?"

I lift my head to stare at the priest. Wrinkles of age surround his eyes as he carefully looks between me and my wife-to-be. Perhaps I spent too long in my brain thinking about my bloody revenge ignoring the little red head standing besides me.

"I apologize," I say, a charming smile gracing my lips. "I'm so eager to take my wife home that I'm zoning out."

Liar.

But if lying is all I need. Then lying I shall.

Scattered laughs echo through the pews and the aging priest gives me a tight smile.

Toria, however, is nowhere near amused. In fact she is pale, and her eyes are fixed somewhere ahead of the priest. She looks like she is about to pass out. Or worse? Become lifeless even.

"You can proceed," I nod towards the priest, while my hand finds that of my bride. It feels cold and rigid, matching her near-fainting expression.

It's like she's having a fucking stroke. And not because of emotions, but more like the way she is withdrawn from what should be the happiest day of her life-for lack of better words.

Should I make it worse?

No need.

I cast a glance at the first bench, where Igor, the Pakhan of the Russian brotherhood sits with Karina, his wife. I told him that he didn't have to attend but he vehemently refused and had his wife accompany him.

In fact, he was against this entire wedding happening, and wanted Toria to marry his son, Nikolai the rogue prince.

As the next in line of his father's role and leader of the Ivanov empire, Nikolai was as ruthless as they come-that explains his nickname-the rogue prince.

I had heard rumours about Nikolai. About how he went on a fucking killing spree just because he was bored.

How he was willing to do anything and everything to get what he wanted. He was a serial murderer and rapist who either spent his time in clubs, surrounded by drugs, women, and alcohol or executing his Godly given duties as he loves to call them-ending his victim's suffering.

Although his aging father had spent the better part of his life molding him to become the best Pakhan ever was, Nikolai had fallen off of his path of being the next leader of the brotherhood.

It was one of the reasons Igor was desperate to have his son married. He was getting old and Nikolai was showing no signs of settling down.

The mafia needed legitimate heirs to survive and since neither of Igor's sons were showing signs of getting wives, he had taken up the honorable duty of being their match maker.

But I couldn't bring myself to sentence my sister with the greatest punishment than burning in hell of being Nikolai's wife.

So I had to come up with the excuse that she was betrothed to me long before she turned ten. So here we are. In a wedding, while I myself hardly believed in the institution of marriage.

Although my papa and step-mom did a good job in showing love actually existed in marriages. But their tragic death actually took away that belief from me.

The Morozov's on the other hand, are watching the show intently on the bride's side. Or more like, they're focused on Toria and her rancid demeanor.

She follows my line of vision, stares at them-as if she is begging for her stepfamily to save her from committing to the sham of a marriage then she subtly turns to the priest.

"Do you, Victoria, take this man, Maksim Malchov to be your husband, to live together in holy matrimony, to love him, to honor him, to comfort him, and to keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

Her eyes focus on mine intently, but it's like she's not seeing me. Or perhaps she's seeing someone else in her lifeless gaze.

"I..." she chokes on the word, swallows, then flinches her eyes closed for a brief moment.

From my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of the audience, all of them sitting taller, eager to catch a whiff of the drama.

"Viktoria?" the priest asks as a low murmur breaks out in the crowd.

She opens her eyes, but when she looks at me, there are tears in them, even as her expression remains the same-distraught.

"Is everything okay?" I say low enough that only she can hear.

Her lips tremble, and she whispers so low that I can barely hear her, "I can't..."

"It's just an 'I do,' Toria. Say it."

She shakes her head.

"Everyone is watching, don't make a fool of me," My tone turns sinister, provocative. "Say. It."

"No! I can't!" she breathes out.

Then, she swipes her hand over her face and wipes the streaks of tears streaming down her face.

I expect her to tear me a new retort scream at me, probably call me a monster to her heart's content.

But instead the fiery Viktoria Malchov does the unexpected. Does something I've never expected from her for the past decades I've known her–she sways on her feet, and as a cliché gentleman I wrap my hands around her waist, steadying her.

She fucking fainted on me.