The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

He instructs Maksym to do the rounds outside, then makes a few calls to his brothers, and when he stands I kneel by her side. I hold her hand. I plead to the universe not to take her, not to let this all have been in vain.

The Bratva swarms Amaranov’s place, so quickly, so efficiently, moments after they leave it looks as if nothing ever happened but Amaranov’s suicide. When our ride arrives, Demyan picks Calina up and carries her himself to the car that awaits outside. Something in me aches to see him holding my sister like she’s a child, close to his chest, his steps firm but gentle, as if he doesn’t want to hurt her. We leave.

We don’t speak on the ride. Filip drives the car and Demyan sit in the passenger seat. I’m not sure what I want to say to Demyan, or how to even begin to talk to him. Everything that led us to this moment no longer matters. Instead, I turn to Calina. She hasn’t opened her eyes since I arrived. I hold her hand as we drive to the compound, and weirdly, hope surges in my chest at the sight of the familiar place.

Demyan has Calina brought to a guest room, where several doctors and paramedics already wait. They swarm around Calina, taking her vitals, and moments after investigating her wound, pronounce it superficial. The Bratva doctor turns to me. “She’ll need a blood transfusion, medication, and rest,” he says. “But she will be fine.”

I hold myself steady with considerable effort.

“Thank you,” I whisper, reaching to gently touch Calina’s shoulder.

The sun sets low in the sky when Calina finally rests, under the doctor’s watchful eye, and Demyan beckons a finger to me.

“Come with me, Ca—” he stops himself before he calls me Calina. He swallows hard and amends his words. “Come with me.”

“I don’t want to leave her,” I tell him. “If she wakes and doesn’t know where she is—”

“She won’t wake for a long time yet,” the doctor assures me.

I worry my lip, looking at her.

“Get some rest,” the doctor suggests, but his gaze is on Demyan. He knows as well as I do that he doesn’t take no for an answer.

“Come with me.” The tiniest bud of hope blossoms in my chest when he reaches for my hand.

I want to climb on his lap and lay my head on his chest. I want to cry for the pain we’ve gone through, the lies I’ve told, his insistence on taking care of my sister. He isn’t the monster I thought he was. He isn’t the monster he thought he was.

Wordlessly, we walk together. We finally reach his suite. As if on auto-pilot, he lets us in, wearily gestures for me to go in ahead of him, then closes the door behind him. Turning to me, he draws me to him. I tremble, my hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

“My kisa,” he begins, the familiar name for me making tears spring to my eyes. “Will you sit with me and tell me everything?”

“Happily, sir,” I say, surprising myself that even now, I call him sir. But that’s who he is. I may not be his captive any longer, but I am his girl and he the master of my heart. He sits wearily on the overstuffed chair by the window, takes me by the hand, and draws me onto his lap. I don’t talk at first. When I lay my head against his shoulder, the tears I’ve held all day begin to fall.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” I cry, like a little girl whose puppy just died.

“Sweet girl,” he says in a pained voice, drawing me so fiercely to him I can’t breathe. “I have no claim on you. There’s nothing, no one I want more in the world than you. I just can’t keep you.”

“But what if I want to be kept?”

“Christ,” he growls, kissing my forehead, my temples, my tear-stained cheeks. “I would give anything to have you stay, but now it’s of your own free will.”

“I meant those vows,” I sob. “I don’t care what anyone else says. I know you aren’t the monster you say you are. I know you’ll do anything to protect me.” My voice cracks. “And I love you, Demyan. I love you.”

“My brave, strong, fearless girl,” he says in a vehement whisper. “There is nothing I want more than to devote the rest of my life to do just that. Keep you as my own.” He rocks me against his chest. “I could hurt you,” he warns. “I’m not a safe man.”

“I don’t want safe,” I promise.

“I will always be tied here. I can’t leave, moya lyubov.”

My love.

“I know,” I tell him. “And neither can I. I need to see my sister is well cared for.”