The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

Okay, then. So he doesn’t like the clothes he picked out for me. Isn’t that lovely.

“Alright,” I tell him, walking over to the closet where my new clothes hang, rows and rows of beautiful garments that overwhelm me a little. I have precisely one pair of jeans, one pair of yoga pants, and three tops at home. Or… I did, anyway. I don’t care much for clothes, and have no need for these high-end beauties in my day-to-day existence.

In my… former day-to-day existence. Does it matter anymore? Who I was is no longer relevant. I’m Calina, here to pay off her debt, and now I’m living another existence, owned by another.

I hold up an eggplant gown, but he looks at the neckline and shakes his head with a furious scowl that I have to admit I find a little terrifying. I try on a green one, then a white one, a pale pink one, and finally he curses angrily under his breath and takes a red one off the hanger. We’ve gone through nearly everything in the closet.

“Arms up,” he orders. I obey, then stand still as he tugs it down my body. “It is useless. There is no way to hide how beautiful you are. And the point of tonight is a dress rehearsal for tomorrow. I want to be sure you’re comfortable dressed in formal clothing.”

It’s odd, though, and makes me feel like I’m on a display, the sole woman walking down a runway. Or the plank. Depending on how you look at it.

He spins me around and zips the dress up my back, so quickly I stumble a little. He grabs my elbow to keep me from falling.

“I didn’t make you dress me like this,” I bite out, keeping my voice calm because I don’t want to incur his anger again, and I know one of my rules demands I speak to him politely. “It isn’t my fault.”

He slams his palm against my ass so quickly and firmly, I gasp in pain, the tingle spreading across my entire ass. Jesus. I mutter in my head about the size of his damn palm.

“It is your fault,” he corrects. “You’re here for what you’ve done, to make retribution for the sins against the Bratva. Now I’m forced to parade you in front of them, knowing that I would knock the teeth out of any man who looks below your neckline.”

A little thrill of… something… bolts through me.

He doesn’t want you, I remind myself.

He wants your body.

Leading me to the exit of his apartment, I marvel once more how impeccably clean it is. There isn’t a throw pillow out of place, and there are lines in the carpet in the living room still visible from when the cleaners vacuumed earlier. The windows gleam without so much as a single fingerprint. He’s had this place perfected.

Just like me. I stood like a statue while they waxed and shaved and primped and preened, filed and straightened and dollied me up.

Does he want his woman as clean as his home?

It’s a sign of control. I’m prisoner to a control freak.

We walk in silence down the hall and he leads me to a large dining room, complete with an enormous table and sideboard. I marvel at the way those around us bow their head in deference when he walks in the room. There’s an air of undeniable authority to him with everything he does. When he speaks, they listen.

Waiters bring champagne in flutes. He takes two, and hands me one.

“Thank you,” I tell him but he doesn’t release the flute.

“Thank you, sir,” I quickly amend.

A quick nod tells me I passed the first test.

As I drink my champagne, other couples show up. One, the large bearded man from earlier, has a tall, thin woman on his arm. She speaks with ease to the others in the room, and they all seem to know her. A few others have women with them, too, none quite as dressed up as I am. Heat flares my cheeks when I realize I’m literally the only one as dolled up as this. He did this on purpose.

But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters tonight is finding a phone to call Calina.

Demyan’s talking to one of his men when I tug his arm. He turns to me, raising a stern brow.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I whisper in his ear. “Please.”

With a nod, he excuses himself from the others and leads me to a hall, Great.

Did I actually think he’d let me walk myself?

“Be quick,” he orders.

“How’m I doing?” I ask him, risking a smile.

His only response is a scowl.

I wonder if another blow job would loosen him up. God.

I walk into the bathroom, taking note of everything I can. I hoped he would let me go alone, and I’d be able to at least scout a phone, but how can I possibly do so with him ever at my side? I may need to be patient, but I’m not going to give up.