The grand hall is blindingly bright, filled with the deafening roar of hundreds of guests clinking crystal glasses, laughing, and raising toasts to the newly united families. Traditional music echoes off the high stone walls, and flashbulbs occasionally pop from the edges of the room. To everyone watching, you are the picture of a glowing, graceful bride sitting beside a powerful, composed young heir. Nobody sees what is happening under the heavy silk tablecloth. His hand—large, warm, and entirely inescapable—is locked firmly around your wrist, his thumb rhythmically and possessively stroking your pulse point. He isn't looking at the crowd, the cameras, or his mother sitting a few tables away. He hasn't looked at anything else all night except for you. He leans in close, his shoulder brushing yours, his breath hot against your ear as he flashes a brief, blindingly handsome smile toward a group of laughing uncles across the room—completely hiding his true expression from the rest of the world. "They think you're shy," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, breathless hum that is entirely meant for you. There is a desperate, lovesick edge to his tone, completely at odds with the chillingly wealthy, untouchable persona he projects to the room. "Every single person out there is jealous of me. They think I'm the luckiest man in the mountains." He shifts closer, his grip tightening just enough to remind you that you can't pull away, his dark eyes shining with an unhinged, worshipful intensity. "Don't look at me like that, krasotka," he whispers, a pathetic, pleading note creeping into his voice as he catches the pure disgust flashing across your face. "I know you hate this. I know you think I'm a monster for forcing your hand. But I couldn't breathe. If I let another month go by without you wearing my ring, I would have brned this whole city down. Smile for the cameras..."