Page 13 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Lena

M other knocks only once before entering, not waiting for permission because she never has.

She carries something over her arm, draped like a dead animal, but with more sequins.

I curl my lips at the sight of the garment she’s carrying.

If she plans on wearing that for tonight’s dinner, I have to tell her not to.

It’s my duty as her daughter to protect her from her horrible fashion missteps.

“What is that?” I take a physical step back from the hideous dress.

"Mikhail has chosen this for you," she says with a tight, humorless smile, holding it out like she's offering a gift and not a curse.

I have to believe it’s a joke.

Mikhail would want me to look nice—not like a woman that makes her money on a pole.

"I'm already dressed." I motion toward the gown I'm wearing.

I happen to like my dress.

It’s modest.

Elegant.

Mine.

Mom doesn’t even look at it. “That one makes you look soft. He wants you to look valuable.”

Ah, there it is.

I blink at her, keeping my voice neutral. "You mean like a prized mare. Or a Maserati."

She steps forward and lays the dress across the bed. It's black. Tight. Backless. With a neckline that I hope comes with breast tape. It’s a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. It looks like it came from a Vegas showroom, not the private dining room of the future king of the Bratva.

“You’ll wear it,” she says, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle. “You’re about to marry the next Pakhan. He will own you. Get used to it.”

There’s no venom in her tone. No comfort either. Just resignation, as though she's reciting something once told to her. Probably by my father.

“Mom—”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “We’ve been over this. Do what you're told. Play your part. Or you’ll get us all killed.”

Us. As if we’re a team. As if she hasn’t spent the last ten years preparing me to be a pawn.

“Why?” I ask softly. “My body will be on display. Doesn’t he want to hide what he thinks is his?”

The resignation in her eyes tells me exactly why he wants me in the dress.

I stare at the dress like it might bite me.

"Put it on," Mom says, her voice flat. "I have the tape."

Of course she does. She's thought of everything. Planned for my humiliation down to the last detail.

I take the dress to the bathroom and close the door. My hands shake as I unzip my beautiful gown—the one that made me feel elegant and confident. It pools at my feet like spilled ink.

The black monstrosity slides over my head like a second skin. The fabric is so thin I can see the outline of my nipples through it. The neckline plunges to my sternum, and the back is completely open, stopping just above the curve of my ass.

I can't wear anything underneath. Nothing. The dress clings to every curve, every line, leaving nothing to the imagination.

I look at myself in the mirror and want to vomit.

This isn't a dress. It's a statement. A declaration of ownership. A way to show every man in that room exactly what Mikhail possesses.

Mom knocks. "Are you decent?"

Decent. What a joke.

I open the door and her eyes sweep over me with clinical assessment. No horror. No sympathy. Just calculation.

"The tape," she says.

I stand there like a mannequin while she applies strips of clear tape to keep the dress from completely exposing me. The adhesive pulls at my skin, creating lines of irritation across my chest. Each strip feels like another chain binding me to this performance.

"There," she says, stepping back to examine her work. "Perfect."

Perfect for what? A strip club? A brothel?

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and barely recognize myself. The woman staring back looks expensive, untouchable, and utterly miserable. My grandmother's bracelet sits delicately on my wrist—the only piece of me that's still mine.

"Your hair needs to be up," Mom says, already reaching for the pins on my vanity. "Show off your neck."

She twists my hair into an elaborate chignon, securing it with a million pins. When she's finished, I look like every other Bratva wife—beautiful, polished, and completely hollow.

"Jewelry," she says, opening a velvet box I've never seen before.

The diamonds inside could fund a small country. A choker-style necklace that looks more like a collar, matching earrings that brush my shoulders, and a gaudy bracelet.

"I already have a bracelet," I say, touching my grandmother's gift.

"Not tonight." Her voice brooks no argument. "Take it off."

"No."

"Lena—"

"No," I repeat, louder this time.

It’s a small thing. Nothing to anyone else but everything to me.

Her eyes take in the bracelet. Of course, she knows where it comes from.

“You’re playing with fire,” she murmurs.

“I don’t care.”

“Come. We’re going to be late.”

Mother opens the door, and Anton is there.

His eyes sweep over me. I watch his expression shift from professional alertness to something darker. Much darker.

And dangerous.

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as he takes in every inch of the dress that barely covers me.

The anger in his eyes is immediate and volcanic. His hands clench into fists at his sides.

Mother shakes her head and walks away without a word, leaving us alone in the doorway.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" His voice is low and dangerous. The kind of tone that makes grown men step back.

"Anton—"

"Change. Now." He steps closer, his presence filling the doorway. "Take that off and put on something else. Anything else."

The command in his voice almost breaks me. I can see how much he hates this, how much it's costing him to see me like this. The tears I've been holding back all evening threaten to spill over.

"I can't," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Mikhail demands it."

The words taste like ash in my mouth.

Anton's face goes deadly still. He curses in Russian, a string of words so vicious my cheeks flush. His eyes burn with a fury that makes me take a step back.

“I have to go,” I whisper. “I’m already late.”

He says nothing.

He walks behind me and I hate that he can probably see my ass cheeks. I don’t mind him seeing my body, but not like this.

Not when I know it’s killing him.

I try not to tug at the hem as I walk into the dining room.

I feel all eyes on me.

I don’t make eye contact with anyone.

The table is long and gleaming. Baccarat crystal reflects the chandelier’s light making the stark-white table linens look like there are rainbows. My father is already seated; his hand wrapped around a tumbler and well on his way to being drunk.

Vadim sits at the head. And Mikhail is lounging like a bored wolf, flicking ash into a cut-glass tray. The empty seat beside him is for me.

I don’t want to sit down.

Mikhail looks up and the sneer makes my stomach turn. He loves that he's humiliating me. The satisfaction in his green eyes is unmistakable. He's enjoying every second of my discomfort.

I refuse to let him see how mortified I am.

I lift my chin and force my spine straight. If he wants a show, I'll give him one. Just not the one he expects.

Because of the table positioning, I have to walk the entire length of the table to my seat at the head next to Mikhail. It's a gauntlet designed to display his prize. Every step feels like an eternity.

The whispers start immediately.

"Look at what she's wearing..."

"Shameless."

"If I had a body like that..."

I hear them all. Feel the stares burning into my skin. The women hate me—some because they're jealous, others because they pity me. The men want me. Their eyes crawl over every exposed inch like hands I can't slap away.

My heels click against the marble floor with each measured step. I don't hurry. I don't cower. I move like a queen walking to her throne, even though I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter.

I hear someone actually gasp when I pass. Good. Let them be scandalized. At least they're not the ones wearing this humiliation.

Mikhail doesn’t rise when I reach my seat.

One of the servants quickly pulls out my chair. It takes a little maneuvering to sit down without flashing the table.

Again, I suspect that was Mikhail’s plan.

Dinner gets underway.

I’m ignored.

Mikhail doesn’t acknowledge me.

No one does.

I sit there with everyone watching and whispering.

They may not talk to me, but I’m listening.

To all of them.

I can feel Anton’s gaze.

I look to the back of the room. He stands with Dmitri and Mikhail’s guards.

There’s a flash of tenderness.

I gather strength from his presence.

Vadim is leaning close to Mikhail, speaking in hushed tones.

“Once the wedding is over,” Vadim says, “we begin cleansing operations. Starting with the traitor.”

My heart stutters, but I keep my face neutral.

Mikhail makes a snorting sound. “I have a few names already. Bodyguard types. Security. A few lieutenants.”

“I want Anton Malikov handled personally,” Vadim says. Ice blooms in my chest. “After the ceremony.”

My hand trembles and wine sloshes over my hand. I set it down too hard, clipping the plate.

Two pairs of eyes turn toward me.

Mikhail’s smile is slow, deliberate. “Careful, wife. That’s Baccarat.”

I hate that he calls me wife.

I am not his wife. Not yet. I want to enjoy every last day I’m not his fucking wife.

I look back to Anton. He’s watching me. He noticed.

Of course, he did.

I do my best to avoid showing the panic in my eyes.

Anton. They’re planning to kill Anton. After the wedding.

I do my best to look like I’m enjoying the lavish meal.

But I know if I eat anything, I will not keep it down. I don’t want to think about what Mikhail will do if I embarrass him by vomiting all over the table.

I last as long as I can before I excuse myself during dessert.

I know Anton will follow. I need him. I need his arms to hold me.

I'm halfway to my room through one of the back hallways when I hear footsteps. I smile, assuming it’s Anton.

"Lena."

My heart drops to my feet.

No, no, no.

I don't turn around. I can't. If I look at him right now, I'll either scream or collapse, and neither option will end well for anyone.

"Don't walk away from me."

Mikhail’s hand catches my elbow, spinning me around. The force of it sends me stumbling back against the wall.

Mikhail's face is flushed, his green eyes glassy with vodka. He's drunk but not drunk enough to be sloppy. He’s too calculated for that.

"We need to talk," he says, pressing closer. Too close. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, mixed with expensive cologne that makes me want to gag.

"I'm tired," I manage, trying to step sideways. "I want to go to my room."

His hand slams against the wall beside my head, trapping me. "Your room. That's interesting. After we're married, it won't be your room anymore, will it? It'll be our room. Our bed."

My stomach lurches. "Mikhail, please?—"

"Please what?" His free hand trails down my arm, fingers like ice against my skin.

His fingers stop just short of my throat, hovering there with a promise of violence.

Then his hand moves up, gripping my face with bruising force.

His thumb presses against my cheekbone, holding me still while his eyes roam over my features with predatory satisfaction.

"After we're married, your bodyguard will be reassigned. Permanently. I don't like sharing what's mine." He says it like he's discussing the weather. Like murder is mundane.

The blood drains from my face. I know exactly what "permanently reassigned" means in his world.

"You're hurting me," I whisper, though the physical pain is nothing compared to the terror clawing at my chest.

"Good," he murmurs, his grip tightening. "Pain teaches lessons. And you need to learn your place."

His other hand slides down my side, fingers tracing the curve of my hip through the obscene dress he forced me to wear. I try to pull away, but the wall behind me offers no escape.

"Such a beautiful wife I'll have," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "So responsive. I saw how you looked at him tonight. How you've been looking at him."

My heart stops. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't lie to me." His fingers dig deeper into my jaw. "I see everything, Lena. Every glance. Every breath. Every time you forget yourself and let your mask slip."

"Lena!" My mother's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "There you are. The ladies are waiting for drinks in the blue salon."

Mikhail's grip loosens fractionally, his head turning toward the sound. In that split second, I see the annoyance. Even drunk, he recognizes the power dynamics at play. My mother isn't just anyone; she's the wife of a lieutenant, a woman with connections of her own.

"We were just talking," Mikhail says smoothly, but his hand drops from my face.

"I'm sure you were." Mother's tone is pleasant, but there's steel underneath. "However, the ladies are expecting Lena. You know how they talk when someone is late."

The threat is subtle but unmistakable. Gossip is currency in our world, and even Mikhail can't afford to have the wives whispering about his treatment of his bride-to-be.

Not yet.

Not until after the wedding when such things become private family matters.

"Of course." Mikhail steps back, straightening his jacket. "Don't keep them waiting."

He walks away without another glance, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Only when he's completely out of sight do I allow myself to breathe.

On shaking legs, I walk to my mother.

She looks me up and down and starts to walk. “You’d be wise not to let yourself get caught alone and unprotected.

I manage to sit through an insufferable hour of small talk while trying to keep my knees closed to avoid flashing the women.

As soon as it’s been an appropriate amount of time, I make my escape.

Anton is there but says nothing as he escorts me to my room.

He says nothing as he quickly searches my room and then leaves.

Tonight, I need to feel close to him.

I strip out of the hideous dress and pull on my pajamas.

I open the door to the passage to make my way to him.

There’s a strange scent in the air. I pause and sniff. It’s cigarette smoke. Harsh. Chemical.

And then I see it.

Footprints. In the dust. Not mine. Not his.

Someone else has been here.

I crouch, heart hammering. There’s fresh cigarette ash on the floor. I pinch some between my fingers and sniff.

Still warm.

Someone’s been using this passage.

Someone’s been spying on me.

I stumble back, bile rising in my throat. How much have they seen? How much have they heard ?

The cold panic curdles into a darker fear. Not just for Anton.

But for both of us.

Because if they’ve seen the way I look at him…

We’re already dead.

My hope for comfort tonight is dashed.

I can’t risk it.

I close the door and curl up in my bed.

I have a choice to make.

Marry Mikhail and let them kill Anton.

Run with Anton and doom my family and never know the feeling of being safe.

Find a third option that doesn’t exist.

Yet .