The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

She’s brilliant and beautiful and all mine.

I have to forgive her. God, I’m no fucking saint and she didn’t come here willingly. I’ve told myself I have a right to do just this because of how she’s stolen from us, but I know. I fucking know that she bears more than punishment for theft. For retribution. She bears the weight of my own anger. When I mete out pain, when I fuck her tight cunt, when I bite her and mark her, she heals a part of me I’ve hidden beneath the rage that fuels me.

And I hate that none of this means anything. I hate that.

So when the music plays, wafting through the ballroom teeming with guests, and the entire room stands, waiting for her approach… when she enters the room looking like an angel sent from heaven, I allow the slightest glimmer of sentiment.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be the way it is. Maybe she didn’t call a man she loves.

Maybe she really can mean something to me.

And when she looks at me… her tremulous eyes filled with wonder, and dare I say a little fear… I wonder.

Maybe she already does.

I give her a smile to help melt that fear in her eyes. My lips tip up and I feel a thrill of… something… take root. I feel lighter than I have in years. She smiles back, her face so lovely it’s almost painful. The room erupts in flashes. Everyone wants to capture her magnificent beauty. I want one of those pictures.

When she reaches me, I gather her to me and whisper in her ear. “You are a sight, little kisa. So beautiful you blind our guests with your radiance.”

“Oh,” she says, flushing a little with a fetching little laugh. “You say that to all the girls.”

I give her a smile that brings color to her cheeks.

I hold her hand and we turn to the officiant.

I’ve asked for the simplest of ceremonies, so soon it’s time for our vows.

It should be just words. This isn’t truth.

Then why, when she looks up at me and meets my eyes, do I see… sincerity? Maksym stands beside me in a suit, sober and steady, and for one brief moment I look at him. Does he see what I see? The moment’s bewitched, somehow. He meets my eyes and tells me with one silent, firm nod, what I need to hear.

You need to do this.

I reach for Calina’s second hand, and when her small, fragile fingers touch my palm, I enclose them with both my hands. I forget my anger. Maybe I’ve been too hasty. My throat tightens, looking down at this beautiful, brilliant, headstrong woman. She’s withstood my rage like a tree in a storm, bending to the onslaught of wind and rain, and rising again. Stronger. Noble. Without realizing what I’m doing, I’ve placed our clasped hands on my heart. I don’t need the officiant to tell me the vows to mimic. I read them and memorized them, preparing for our day, so I could take my vows without faltering.

I speak the words in English, so nothing is lost in translation.

“I take you as my wife. To be with you always.” And as I say these words, pride expands in my chest and I take a deep, cleansing breath. I don’t want her to go. I know now that no matter what, I’ll need to find a way to let her go, despite what she knows, despite the danger she poses to us. But I don’t want to release her of her obligation to me and let her free.

I want her to stay. The sudden knowledge both startles and terrifies me.

Where would she go? Who would take care of her? How can I wake to an empty bed without her by my side? In such a short time, she’s changed me.

I realize I’ve paused and the room waits for the rest of my vows. Calina’s gaze holds mine, steady and true. I swallow and continue.

“In wealth and in poverty.”

My mind goes to my early days as a poverty-stricken child, eating thin soup and simple bread in the little hovel we called home. I will work night and day to ensure Calina is cared for. That she never has to experience the pangs of hunger, threadbare clothes, or cold creeping in through doorways because there’s no heat. I’ll take care of her every need, because when I make a promise, I mean what I say.

“In sickness and in health,” I continue, “In happiness and in grief.” I imagine holding her on my lap while I wipe away her tears. In my imagination, she places her head on my chest and revels in my ministrations. So trusting. My hands tighten on hers as I finish my pledge to her, the words now ringing loud and clear in the assembly of people. And hell, I mean them. I fucking mean them.