To Wear The Devil’s Ring

Alexei led her deeper into the garden of wolves.

The function blurred into a relentless march of names and titles: capos, allies, relatives with fox eyes and venomous smiles. Everyone pretended not to question why Alexei Romanov had married a girl no one had seen before that day.

And him?

He smiled through it all—polished, unbothered, unreadable.

She moved beside him like a glass figurine waiting to shatter. Her cheeks ached from forced smiles. Her heels dug blisters into her feet. The gown itched like fire. She was suffocating beneath silk and scrutiny.

Worst of all?

She couldn't mess up. One wrong word, one stumble, and she'd go from mystery to cautionary tale.

So when someone handed her a champagne flute, she took it.

Just one glass. To dull the edge.

Then another.

Vodka came next—tradition, they said. Refusing would be rude.

And just like that, the night softened. The sharp edges dulled.

Faces blurred. Voices turned to smoke. Laughter came easier.

And so did mistakes.

She lost track—of time, of toasts, of her own smile.

At some point, Alexei vanished—absorbed into conversation with Lev, then Irina, then a cluster of men with glittering rings and blood under their fingernails.

That's when it happened.

And then it happened.

Some puffed-up nephew of someone—drenched in cologne and utterly lacking in brain cells—cornered her by the piano.

Maybe he thought she was drunk enough to entertain him.

Maybe he was just too stupid to know who he was dealing with.

He leaned in far too close, breath sour with vodka and ego. Sweat clung to his skin like desperation, thick and clammy.

"So, what did Romanov pay for you?" he sneered, his eyes sliding down her dress like a sleaze with a shopping list. "Land? A favor? You don't look like you come cheap."

Nadya blinked, disoriented—not from drink, but from disbelief.

Seriously? That was his opener?

She was too buzzed for this. Too exhausted to play polite. So she downed the last of her champagne and turned her back on him without a word.

But the idiot hadn't gotten the memo.

His hand clamped around her arm, jerking her back.

"Don't walk away when I'm talking to you, bitch."

Nadya blinked once.

Then twice.

And the room sharpened into sudden, chilling clarity.

Crack.

She set her empty flute on the piano's glossy surface and slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked across the ballroom like a shot, loud and sharp.

He stumbled back a step, hand flying to his cheek—more stunned than injured, clearly unaccustomed to consequences.

"You miserable little prick," she said, voice only slightly slurred but sharp with fury. "Touch me again and I'll rearrange your teeth with that candelabra."

Nearby heads turned. A breathless hush. A cough that may have been a laugh.

"That's Romanov's wife?" someone whispered. "Holy hell."

Most people sipped their drinks as if it were an opera night.

The man rallied far too quickly for someone with a working brain.

"You're lucky I even spoke to you," he snapped, finger jabbing. "Just because you whored your way in—"

"Oh please," she cut him off, hands raised like claws. "That's the best you've got? I've heard meaner from drunk bridesmaids in Odessa."

"You think you're special because Romanov dropped a ring on you?" he barked, red-faced. "You're just the flavour of the month."

She stepped forward, knees wobbly but gaze steel.

"News flash, asshole—" she said, stabbing a manicured finger into his chest. "—I wasn't bought. But if I were? He underpaid."

Gasps. A sputtering laugh. Even the string quartet faltered.

She didn't wait to see his face collapse into humiliation.

She turned, heels in hand, hair wild, eyes gleaming. The ballroom parted for her like a storm surge.

The man shouted something after her—no one listened.

They were watching her.

And she didn't look back.

~*~*~*~

The hallway spun. Then steadied. Then spun again.

She didn't remember how she got outside. One moment, she was inside, heat clinging to her skin like a second dress—and the next, cold night air slapped her across the face like a blessing.

Nadya stepped into the garden, air crisp as new glass, and gasped like it was her first breath all night.

Muted music filtered through the doors.

Laughter echoed faintly. The Romanovs feasted on power behind the glass, smiling sharks in tailored suits.

She walked. She didn't know where—just away. The scent of roses curled in the air. 

Her fists clenched her gown. Her feet were bare on cold stone.

She didn't cry.

She wouldn't.

But her throat burned.

What the hell had she done?

She kept walking until the spinning stopped.

Then she sat alone in the courtyard's quiet. Her breath misted, shallow and uneven.

She didn't know whether to scream, cry, or laugh until something inside her broke.

She had done it. She'd been claimed, displayed, judged, and drunk.

Now she was just a girl in a wedding dress, shivering in a stranger's garden, married to a man she didn't trust.

In a house that would never be home.

A shadow shifted behind her.

"You planning on escaping through the hedges?"

His voice was smooth and sharp.

She turned.

Alexei leaned in the doorway. Jacket slung over one arm. Tie loose. Shirt open just enough to tease the ink on his chest.

"You left," she muttered.

"You got drunk," he observed, stepping closer.

"I'm married," she said bitterly. "To a bastard."

"I heard you slapped Grigori."

"He deserved it."

"I agree."

She blinked. "You're not surprised?"

Alexei tilted his head. "I've met you."

He was close now. Close enough to see the dark crescents under her eyes. The mascara smudge near her temple. The silk slipping from her shoulders.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"Good," he murmured. "I'd be worried if you didn't."

Then—without warning—he swept her into his arms.

She shrieked. "What the hell—?!"

"Don't puke on me and I won't drop you."

"I'm not—" But her head dropped against his shoulder anyway. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

He was warm. Too warm.

He smelled like expensive cologne and sin.

"You're warm," she mumbled.

"You're really drunk."

"I was surviving."

"How's that working out?"

"I'm still breathing."

He made a sound—half scoff, half sigh—but didn't let her go.

She tucked her face against his throat. Not from affection.

She was just so damn tired.

And cold.

"I hate you," she whispered again.

"Sure you do."

She laughed. Soft. Shaky. Almost broken.

"You don't even know how much."

Alexei said nothing.

Just carried her back inside.

And just as sleep began to pull her under, she murmured something he didn't catch.