My Beloved Captor

Chapter 1

I was beginning to wonder if my mind was playing tricks on me.

The guests at this traditional wedding behaved strangely, watched me constantly, and gave me the uncanny feeling that I didn't belong. It was as though I were some odd creature from another world-not simply a Canadian girl far from home.

I had no idea how I'd managed to survive five full days so far from my grandma and everything familiar. The further I wandered into this corner of the Caucasus, the heavier the homesickness pressed on my chest.

Maybe it was the way this place seemed to reject me from day one. Or maybe it was just the eerie way people looked at me.

"You look beautiful!" Anya's excited whisper snapped me back to reality. Her cheeks glowed with the unmistakable joy of a bride. "What do you think of my dress?"

Of course she'd compliment me first-then expect a return of praise. That was just like her.

I smiled and carefully considered my words. Anya, my college classmate and closest friend, was getting married today. And even though I had flown all the way here for her, I still wasn't fully on board with her choices-least of all the groom. Or the setting.

The Caucasus region, with all its rigid customs and archaic traditions, was difficult for me to adjust to. I knew from stories-and not just idle ones-that many European women who married into this world eventually tried to flee their husbands' control. Some succeeded.

Some, like my aunt, never came back.

"Very traditional choice," I said diplomatically. I didn't want to offend her. But honestly-was the head covering really necessary?

She was wrapped in fabric from head to toe. The dress looked unbearably conservative-heavy, stiff, and suffocating. I couldn't help but wonder if she was sweltering beneath all those layers.

But of course, the family she was marrying into had their own way of doing things. And one of their most sacred traditions involved traveling from house to house for three full days, greeting distant relatives of the groom and paying ceremonial respects.
Parading the bride and collecting elaborate gifts was a customary practice in this part of the Caucasus, and while it might have been thrilling for Anya, it had drained me completely. Every day ended the same: me collapsing in the guest bedroom, too exhausted to even dream.

And still-we hadn't even met the groom.

Tradition dictated that he wouldn't appear until the fourth day of the wedding festivities. That day, thankfully, had finally arrived.

"I know," Anya sighed, catching my glance. "I wanted that gorgeous open-back dress we saw in the shop, remember? But they insisted."

By "they," she meant her new relatives-currently staring at me as if I'd insulted their ancestors.

What had I done to offend them?

Was I dressed inappropriately? Was it my uncovered hair? Every woman in the room wore a headscarf, their hair tucked modestly beneath woven cloths. Some looked lovely that way-especially the younger girls. But it wasn't my culture, and it certainly wasn't my style.

Besides, I was proud of my hair. Fair and shining with a natural silver glint, it streamed down my back and chest in loose, glossy waves. It framed my pale skin and gave me a delicate air I never really earned. My Ukrainian grandmother used to stroke my head and call me her "little girl with moonlight hair."

Today, despite the stifling heat, I had chosen a blush-pink, long-sleeved dress. The fitted bodice hugged my chest modestly, and the full-length skirt flared around my hips without clinging. The color brought warmth to my complexion, and the overall look-by any Western standard-was tasteful and elegant.