Conquered Bride (Belaya Bratva 1)

Turning, I tried to portray the meek girl who knew nothing about the world she had been thrust into. They knew me as a girl who spoke no English, and it had proven difficult for me to maintain the air of speaking flawless Russian.

Thank God for my electives in college or I would be screwed.

The man at the door held out his arm and I took it, keeping my hand from trembling as I laid it on the sleeve of his suit coat. The church I had been brought to earlier was one I recognized, the Holy Transfiguration Russian Orthodox Church. It was one I had filmed a soap opera episode in once before, a gorgeous sanctuary that would be on any bride’s most wanted list for a perfect wedding day.

My dour-faced guide moved me before a set of heavy wooden doors, and my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. This was it. There was no turning back.

What would Ilsa say about this? Would she urge me on? Doubtful. She would tell me that I was crazy and have Roman whisk me somewhere to hide.

A sudden rush of tears assaulted my eyes and threatened to ruin my makeup. I blinked them back, clearing my vision once more. I wasn’t going to cry. Not today. I had already cried enough since I had been taken. Tears didn’t solve anything, and they sure as hell weren’t going to get me out of this.

The doors opened and I was forced to step forward onto the shiny lacquered floor, looking up at the vaulted ceilings and ornate carvings that were at the end of a long aisle. Surprisingly the wooden pews were packed with guests, all standing and turning as the pipe organ music swelled. None of their faces were familiar, and my heart wrenched in my chest.

I wanted my family here. I wanted my friends here.

Hell, I wanted a man who actually cared about me waiting at the end of the aisle.

I wanted to feel happiness instead of emptiness and dread. I wanted to cry tears of joy instead of tears of fear.

This was supposed to be a day I wanted to remember. Not a waking nightmare I wanted to forget.

Somehow I made myself move down the aisle, my head held high, the only sounds the music in the large sanctuary. No one spoke, no one whispered, as if they were frozen in place, surprised that they were attending a wedding after all.

The closer I got, the tighter the knots grew in my stomach. He was there, waiting for a woman he thought he was going to wed.

Instead, he would be getting an actress that had no ties to any Bratvas. He would be marrying a poor girl from a blue-collar family that could barely rub two coins together some days, a woman who could give him none of the power he was looking for.

Even if I did lose my life over this, at least the biggest joke was about to be played on him.

I took the steps up to the altar and turned, my train cascading down the steps behind me. Only then did I allow myself to look at my soon-to-be husband—Gavril Kirilenko.

His hands were clasped before him, the silver ring on his right hand catching the low lamplight. He was dressed in a black suit, his white shirt a bright contrast to his tanned skin underneath. His dark brown hair was slicked back on his head, exposing his wide forehead and a set of high cheekbones dusted with the beginnings of a beard. Gavril’s eyes were almost gray in color and as he gazed at me intensely, I fought the urge to run back down the aisle screaming.

There was no warmth in his stare. No affection. No love. The only thing I saw staring back at me was inky coldness. The man before me wasn’t a kind man. I had already found that out in more ways than I’d liked.

I doubted there was a bone in his body that could even understand what kindness was.

My heart wanted to hang onto the fact that Roman, Ilsa’s husband, had been the same way. She had given me their complete, sordid tale and how he had turned from a cold-blooded killer to a man that cared about her and their unborn child above all else.

But as I looked at Gavril, I knew I couldn’t cling to that hope. This man was born and bred to be harsh, and nothing was going to change that.

Least of all me.

A monster like him shouldn’t be so damn gorgeous. Gavril filled out his suit nicely, from his broad shoulders to the tapered waist and everything in between. As my eyes roamed over his impeccably dressed form, my stomach tightened at the memory of what he was capable of.

A memory that I would never admit to liking.

Gavril was power, danger, and sex all wrapped up.

And in a few moments, he would be my husband.

No, I reminded myself. Not my husband. Not Naomi Spencer’s husband. He was marrying Sveta Orlov.

The priest cleared his throat, and Gavril gave him a curt nod.

“Begin,” he said in Russian.

Thank God I had taken that Russian class in college. I thought it was a useless elective years ago, and now, that useless class might be the only thing that was keeping me alive.

The priest started, and Gavril took my hand in his. His touch was warm, and I tried to fool myself into believing that it was reassuring.

But I knew better.

There was nothing soft about this man, nothing that was going to make me feel at ease. He’d made me do unspeakable things before this day. And the thought of what he’d do after his ring slipped on my finger sent a shudder down my spine.

A few times I was forced to kneel before the priest with Gavril, keeping my eyes downcast so he couldn’t see the indecision there behind my veil. I wasn’t very religious and had only attended a handful of Catholic weddings in my day, but never a Russian Orthodox one.

Everything was different, and I didn’t understand the protocol. Each time, though, Gavril helped me rise, his hand tight on mine as if he knew my thoughts.

What more could he expect? He was marrying me without my consent. Any woman would want to run away from this madness!

“And now the rings,” the priest finally said, balancing two circles of gold on his Bible. My breath caught as I stared at them, wondering why I thought he wouldn’t wear one. Gavril didn’t seem like the type of man who wanted to be known as having a wife, but then again, I wasn’t just going to be a wife.

I was going to be a means to an end, a source of power for him. Little did he know that nothing he was doing was going to help him in any way.

Sveta was dead. Her father was dead. Gavril wasn’t going to get anything out of this marriage.

A bubble of laughter nearly escaped me at the thought, but I choked it back as Gavril reached for the smaller circle. He took it and slid it onto my hand. The ring itself was simple and elegant. I could see the scroll of designs on the metal and realized it looked older than I first realized.

It was a family heirloom.

The cool metal immediately warmed on my finger, and even though it was light and airy, it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Like a shackle that bound me to him.

Forever.

My fingers trembled as I took the solid gold ring from the priest and turned to Gavril. He held out his hand, and I hesitated. There were so many other things I would have liked to do with the ring, and each one would have resulted in my death. For a moment, I toyed with the idea that I could still end this. That I could choose to go out on my own terms.

But powerless and wordless, I slid the ring on his finger, past his scarred knuckle, until it rested at the base.

That was it. We were married.