Page 11 of His Ruthless Vow

8

DIMITRI

Ipush open the heavy oak door of St. Michaels and step out of the blustery winds into the warmth of the heated vestibule. A storm threatens to unleash rain over Moscow tonight, but here inside, things are cozy and beginning to look festive. Red ribbons and silver and gold bells have sprouted up around the doors and archways as the religious community prepares for their pinnacle moment of the year.

It's a bit premature for me as I unzip my jacket and toss my hair, still shaking off the wind from outside. Christmas is still two months out, which still gives me plenty of time to build a case against my father and the Volskaya Pakhan before this wedding moves forward. I suppose the merriment of the Western holiday invading Russia could bring a bit of joy, but the decorations only serve as a reminder of five years ago and what I'm trying to accomplish.

When I step into the back door of the sanctuary, I see Alana is already here, seated in the second to last row. Three candles burn near the front, though I hardly believe she's praying this evening. She sits rigid, with her spine arrow-straight and her eyes locked ahead of her, not bothering to turn as I slide onto the end of the pew, leaving a gap between us.

Her chest rises and falls under her heavy parka as she settles herself without turning to look at my face. She called this little soiree, and unless she coughs up whatever it is she found, I'm not sure why I'm here. I'm supposed to be out making rounds and picking up payments.

"So, you found something?" I ask, watching her out of the corner of my eye. To look directly at her might seem too forward, though even in the low light, her beauty is eye-catching. Why the hell would Alexei choose her sister over her? Natalia is pretty in a very plain way. Alana is a work of art.

"I did," she says stiffly, but she doesn't move to give me anything. Her voice sounds as tense as her facial expression, her posture completely unmoving.

I sit for a second waiting, locked inside my own head. If she would just cough it up, we'd be done with this already and I could see how useful the information might be to helping my case. But she sits stoically, blinking slowly like she's processing what to say next. This is painful. I want to snap at her, make her move faster, but if I want her help, I have to move at her pace.

Finally, when I think she's never going to move, she reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone, handing it to me unlocked. The photo app is open and on the screen I see hastily taken pictures of what looks like medical files. The camera is blurry on a few of them, but there are multiple images of each file, and a few of them are self-explanatory.

My gut twists as I realize what she must be feeling. I pore over each image until the pictures of files end and a selfie of her and her sister smiling together wearing silly hats pops up. Alana looks happy and warm, not this stiff, cold woman seated next to me. In this photo, she is alluring and magnetic. I can't look away from it until I hear a sniffle and my eyes pop up.

When I look at her, I see tears streaming down her face, whether from pain or shame, I don't know. But her eyes stay fixed on the altar ahead and the cross bearing a statue of the crucified Christ hung over the dais. Seeing this has ripped her apart, though I can see she's really holding herself together well.

"Will it help?" she mutters, using a hand to swipe at her eyes. The black leather only smears the moisture without drying it, and without thinking about it, I reach up and wipe those tears away with my thumb, grazing the line of her jaw.

At first Alana flinches and pulls away, but when my hand lingers, wishing to God I could take away that pain and make her be this happy woman on the screen in my hand, she pauses and looks at me. There is so much sorrow and pain in her eyes, I can't stand it. Her bottom lip quivers and more tears slip down her cheeks, and without thinking, I reach over and pull her into my arms awkwardly.

She leans, half-buried in my chest, and when she squirms and I think she'll pull away, I loosen my grip, only to find she sits straighter and scoots closer. This token of comfort is probably way too little and far too late to matter, but it feels like an honest gesture to me. I can't put right what my brother fucked up, but I can try.

"Yes," I say against her hair, holding her as her shoulders gently shake with more tears. "It will help. You did so well." Having DNA proof that Ivan was the one who assaulted Alana will go a long way toward ensuring the council takes a harder look at my father's past business dealings. Alone, it might not stop the ceremony—the council leaders might still be willing to allow the alliance to form, given both sides are willing to put an end to the fighting. But it's a start.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles against my chest, sniffling more. "I don’t mean to fall apart like this. I just…"

"Hey, shh," I soothe, smoothing a hand down the back of her head. She's so thin, it's like I'm holding air. I could pick her up and toss her around if I wanted to. But she's not frail at all. I feel the strength in her body when she sits up, pulling away. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her full lips are cherry-red and pouty.

"It's just that…"

"Hey, no. You don't have to be sorry or try to be anything except what you’re okay with." I narrow my eyes at her and reach up, tucking a stray strand of hair around her ear. "What happened to you was a crime. It's a miracle you're still living if half of this stuff is true." I saw those files she probably shouldn't have been so eager to show me. Ivan fucked her up bad.

Alana sighs and reaches for her phone, and I let her take it. "I'll send them to you, okay? If I print them off at my house, someone will probably see them."

"Yeah, okay," I say softly, backing away to give her space, but there's this strong urge inside me to comfort and protect her now. I hate my brother for what he did. It's unforgiveable. Seeing the aftermath of that moment is painful. Alana doesn't deserve to suffer the way he's made her suffer.

She adds the images to a message and hits Send, then locks her phone and slides it into her pocket before looking up at me. "I should go. Batya will wonder where I am."

It's awkward now, some strange silence settling between us after I hugged her. Alana feels more comfortable around me, so that's good. But knowing who she is and her past, along with the truth about the future and what we're trying to do, has made it difficult for me to know what's the right thing. I can’t be a total ass and ignore her pain, but why go through the difficulty of breaking up this wedding between her sister and my brother if I'm gonna end up feeling so drawn to her?

Because I do.

"Yeah, you should go," I say softly, but I don't move to let her out of the row. Our world is a scary place. She could go home to a family who is ready to jump on her for sneaking around, and if they see her around me, that lecture or punishment would be ten times worse. I find myself wanting to shield her from that potential inevitability.

"You sort of have to move," she says, nodding at the end of the row.

When her eyes rise to meet mine, I freeze, feeling stuck. This is just supposed to be about ending this alliance before it begins. I’m not supposed to care about her feelings.

But the reason I ever started talking to her to begin with was because of what my brother did to her. Of course she's going to have wild emotions. She's partnering with her attacker's brother.

"Right," I say, catching myself staring. I stand and move out the end of the row of pews, giving her space to stand and walk toward me.