The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

One lunges for me and tries to grab me but instead he ends up tearing my shirt. He suddenly freezes and pales, and I don’t understand his reaction at first, until I notice he’s bared my shoulder. The mark of the brotherhood.

“Bratva,” he whispers, looking at me with wide, fearful eyes as if he holds the devil incarnate.

“Fucking Bratva,” I tell him in confirmation, pointing my pistol at his temple. My hand shakes with the need to pull the trigger, but something stops me. Calina is right here, watching my every move. In any other circumstance, I would end his life without a second thought, but now I hesitate. Instead, I bring my left hand back and slap him, hard, across the face. Blood spurts from his nose and he whimpers in pain. “You get the fuck out of here before my reinforcements arrive,” I tell him. “They’ll end you. The only reason I’m not is because my woman stands watching.” The one I hit limps away as fast as he can, his swagger swallowed by fear. I lift the second from the ground, and shove him ahead of me just as the sound of tires on gravel grates behind us. Maksym’s here. The men, though injured, flee.

As soon as Maksym comes into view, he comes right for me. “Ty v poryadke, Dem?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. I reach for Calina, running my hands along her body as if to feel for any injuries.

“I’m fine,” she says, reaching for my hand.

I ignore her and tug her to me as I speak to Maksym. “I let them go. They weren’t sent here to attack and almost pissed their pants when they realized they attacked Bratva.” But the sound of feet pounding on gravel, hoarse groans and thumps tell me they did not escape the punishment from my brothers. Maksym didn’t come alone. That’s the last time those men will ever fuck with us.

We get into the car my men brought. I need to take her home.CHAPTER THRITEENThe entire ride home, he sits me on his lap and speaks into his phone, his voice imbued with a fury and anger I can feel just by touching him. He hates that we were threatened, but I wonder if he really worries about me at all. I mean nothing to him, so why does it anger him so that Amaranov wanted me? That the men on the street made the same insinuation? He’s territorial, I guess. And I’m his property.

Twice now, I’ve seen him under attack. It scares me a little how easily he slips into the mode of a ruthless killer, like a trained hitman focused on a target. He shows no mercy. No remorse.

The device in his pocket lies forgotten as he issues commands, and it seems my training is the furthest thing from his mind. I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the one silver lining right now. His manipulation of my body is exhausting. Somehow thrilling… but exhausting.

I place my hand on his chest at the hollow of his neck, With my bare palm pressed to his skin, I can feel his pulse, rapid and powerful beneath my fingers. He’s fueled with indomitable passion and purpose, fiery and angry, and something deep down inside me once more yearns to tame the wild beast. To gentle the temper that rages in him. After some time, he reaches for my hand at his neck and brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them. The whiskery, soft feel of his mouth makes me pull up a little closer to him.

“We’re okay,” I tell him. “You scared the shit out of those idiots.”

His eyes crinkle a little and he kisses my fingers again but then a dark shadow passes over him. “I would have killed them if they had hurt you,” he says. “And it wouldn’t have been swift or merciful.”

A beat passes in silence. We’ve been riding a while, and I know we’ve got to be almost back. I don’t want our ride to end. Somehow, in the back of this car, after a night of where he’s fought to keep me his, nightfall surrounding us and a full moon in the vast sky above, this almost feels like a secret rendezvous between lovers. A tryst. We aren’t meant to feel anything but hatred and revenge. Our minds, astute and wary, know no such affection grows but only lust. He’s my captor and I’m his prisoner. He the executioner and I the victim.

But when I gently place my head on his shoulder, he lets me, holding me so close, my body fits snugly against him. As if I belong here. As if I were created for this, this very moment. I trace my index finger along the stark white collar of his t-shirt and gently draw it down, revealing the mark of the Bratva.