Midnight Oath (Tasarov Bratva 1)

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Julia has a flair for the dramatic, but there’s no denying that she’s the best at what she does.

Emery frowns. “What have you designed? Anything I’ve ever heard of?”

Julie toes at Emery’s discarded cotton panties on the floor. “Given the state of your undergarments, I’d guess no. But that’s fine. I’ll leave you with a full line of my latest lingerie collection.” She turns and winks at me. “A gift for my best customer.”

“Lingerie?” Emery frowns. “I thought you were his tailor.”

Julia turns and gives me a seductive smile. “I'm his tailor, his personal designer, anything else he wants me to be. I’ll do just about anything for Mr. Tasarov. Including designing wedding dresses, apparently.”

Emery looks from Julia to me and back again, trying to make sense of it.

I wish her luck. I've never been able to make much sense of Julia, either. Which is why I like her. She has a job, she does it well, and she doesn't fuck around. It's why I'm paying a damn fortune for Emery's last minute wedding gown.

My bride will have the best this world can offer—whether she likes it or not.

Julia launches into a spiel about hem selection and silhouette design. She’s still going on about her process, but I’m not paying attention.

I’m looking at my fiancée. Tentatively, Emery inches over to the bed to look at the three gowns I set aside for her. She's still naked, her body gloriously exposed and doing terrible things to my self-control, but I can't tear my eyes from her face.

I watch her expression shift from curiosity… to confusion… to horror.

She plucks the dress off the top of the pile and lifts it up. Sunlight slices through the material, highlighting the sheer panels across the midsection and the lacy skirt. The back is another sheer panel with intricately embroidered flowers along the spine.

The only solid pieces are over the breasts and a thin triangle between the legs.

Emery looks up at me, jaw wide open. “Over my dead body.”

I smile back pleasantly. “That can be arranged.”

* * *

Emery stands in front of the mirror while Julia fusses around her, flaring out the lace train, admiring her work.

“Gorgeous,” Julia murmurs. “Absolute perfection. And you look nice, too, dear.” She laughs at her own joke and turns to me. “What do you think, Mr. Tasarov?”

I catch Emery’s eye in the mirror. Her anger is gone now, replaced by a cool resignation.

It almost makes me miss her fire.

“Hm,” I say, moving closer.

Emery tenses. This is the third dress she’s tried on, and she’s still on edge. It has a lot to do with how exposed she is, I’m sure.

Which, of course, was entirely the point.

I drag my finger down the scalloped edge of the back of the dress. The material flutters gently over Emery’s petite frame. It's flattering, hugging her in the right places and showing more than enough skin… but something isn’t right.

“It’s too… mundane,” I say. “It looks like—”

“A normal wedding dress?” Emery offers. Her words drip with indignation.

“Exactly.” I snap my fingers. “It’s ordinary. And you, kiska, are anything but ordinary.”

Emery fights an eye roll. As the fitting has gone on, she’s become more and more docile. Almost as if she’s finally learning her lesson.

I’m dubious, to say the least.

“I like this one best,” she whines.

Julia looks at me and shrugs.

I lean in and press my finger to the discrete zipper low on her back. Emery arches away from my touch, making her all the more tempting.

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t give a shit what you like best.” I pull the zipper down the first few notches. “I want to see the first one again.”

Julia moves to help Emery undress, but I hold up my free hand and the woman freezes in place. “Nobody touches my wife but me,” I snarl softly. “Go get the next dress ready.”

She bustles over to the racks against the back wall, leaving Emery and me alone in front of the mirror. Our eyes meet in the reflection.

“We make quite the picture, don’t we?” I remark. As I’m talking, I slide the zipper down to just above the swell of her ass. My hand lingers, grazing over her gentle curves. “Dark and light. Strong and meek.”

Her brow arches. “Am I meek?”

“Not entirely. Not yet,” I whisper. “But you will be.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but before she can, I slide the dress from her shoulders.

The material cascades down and pools at her feet, leaving her naked once again. From my vantage point, I can see the swell of her breasts over her shoulder.

I slide my hand around her waist and up, cupping her breast. I brush my thumb over her pebbled nipple.

Emery shivers. “Don’t,” she breathes.

I look back at the mirror and realize her eyes are closed. Her plump lips are parted on a sigh, and her head is tipped back towards me.

“Why?” I palm her warm flesh. She stumbles backward, sinking into my body.

“Because,” she says, “we… we shouldn’t.”

I pinch her nipple and tug. She has to bite her lip to keep the moan from spilling out. “Do better than that, kiska.”

“Because… I hate you.”

My hand slides over her stomach. When I cross over her hips, she angles up to meet me, forcing my fingers into the curls between her legs. But I hold off. I don’t go any further. No matter how much she wriggles, I don’t concede another inch.

“What do you hate about me?” I whisper in her ear. “Do you hate that I won’t touch you? Do you hate that I’m not inside of you? Do you hate that no one fucks you like I do?

“Yes,” she gasps. “I hate that most of all.”

I smile. “Good girl. Then are you ready for your treat?”

Emery looks like she might refuse. Like she might muster up the strength to step away, to stop this in its tracks.

But then my hand finally drifts lower. I stroke against her wetness.

And just like that, the last of her fire is snuffed out.

“Julia,” I say over my shoulder as the seamstress approaches with an armful of white lace in hand, “give us the room.”