Page 22 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Lena

I ’m living a nightmare.

I cannot believe this is happening.

My heart feels as if it has crumbled into a million pieces.

I can’t breathe.

And now I’m supposed to eat bread.

Salt stings the cut on my lip.

The cut was my own fault. I bit down too hard, trying to stop myself from crying.

We kneel on the silk cushions like proper little dolls.

The Parental Blessing ceremony is another tradition in a long line of Russian ways.

It’s stupid.

All of this is ridiculous.

Mikhail and I face our parents.

The ceremonial table is laid out with embroidered cloths, the traditional loaf of bread, the salt dish.

A bottle of vodka sits nearby, as if any amount of alcohol could dull the sharpness of this day.

If I thought being black-out drunk would stop the wedding, I would down that entire bottle.

But that would only leave me vulnerable.

I have to remain in control of my body.

Even if I know that doesn’t truly matter.

I have no control over anything.

My body will belong to Mikhail.

My life is his to give or take.

I feel like a sacrificial lamb. No one says that part aloud, but it’s there in the air, just beneath the clink of silver and whispered Orthodox prayers.

Everyone in this room knows what my future looks like.

There is no future.

I’ll be used and abused and forced to bear at least two children.

There is no joy in having children, because I know they will be abused as well.

My mother’s hand is trembling as she places a piece of the bread into mine. Her lips are tight, her eyes red. She knows what this is. She knows I’d almost rather die than go through with this. She sees my pain.

But she’s not stopping it.

My father looks far too proud for a man marrying off his only daughter to a monster. I don't think he sees it that way. He sees political strategy. Protection. Legacy.

My sacrifice means he gets to live.

And thrive.

While I suffer and die a slow death.

All I can hope for is a quick death.

Maybe I’ll die in childbirth.

Or maybe I can make him angry enough to kill me quickly.

Vadim stands beside my father. He makes a solemn vow to safeguard our family. “From now until the grave,” he says in that gravelly, deadpan voice of his.

But he’s lying.

If Anton told me the truth, Vadim is lying. He will not protect my family.

Mikhail's hand is on my knee. His thumb presses just a little too hard.

Possessive.

Warning.

He leans close and whispers in my ear, breath hot. “Swear your loyalty to me tonight, or Anton dies before morning.”

I jerk back to look at him. My heart stutters, then hammers. “What?” I mouth.

He smiles. That smug, Cheshire cat smile I’ve grown to hate. “You heard me, little bride.”

My lips part, but I can’t breathe. I don’t even know what to ask. I haven’t seen Anton since last night. I rejected his invitation to see me earlier.

I’m regretting that choice.

But I couldn’t risk it.

Mikhail had eyes everywhere.

Was Anton already dead? No. No, Mikhail wouldn’t taunt me if he was. He wants me to squirm.

I glance toward my mother. She’s watching me, her chin trembling. She knows something.

No one gets a happy ending.

Not here.

“I’ll do it,” I whisper to Mikhail.

His eyes gleam. “Yes. You will.”

The ceremony ends with forced kisses and stale congratulations. I don’t remember walking out. I don’t remember being handed a bouquet. I just remember the way Mikhail touches my lower back as we exited.

It’s revolting.

I’ve changed my mind.

I need to see Anton.

I have to tell him I love him one last time.

I stumble out of the ceremonial room, my dress catching on the doorframe. The heavy fabric threatens to trip me with every step, but I don't care. I need to find him. I need to see Anton before?—

"Lena." My mother's voice cuts through my panic. "Where are you going?"

"My room. I need a moment."

"The photographer is waiting?—"

"Five minutes." I'm already moving down the hall. "Please, Mom. Five minutes."

She reaches for my arm, but I pull away. Her face crumples with something that looks like grief.

"Lena, don't?—"

But I'm already running.

The corseted bodice makes it impossible to breathe fully. My lungs burn as I race up the stairs. Staff members press themselves against the walls as I pass, their eyes wide. A woman in a server's uniform nearly drops her tray of champagne flutes.

I don't care. Let them stare. Let them whisper about the bride who's lost her mind.

I reach the second floor and head straight for Anton's room. My hands shake as I pound on the door.

"Anton!" I call out, not caring who hears. "Anton, please!"

Nothing.

I try the handle. Locked.

"Anton!" I hit the door harder, my knuckles splitting against the wood. "I know you're in there!"

Still nothing. But there's something wrong. I can feel it.

I gather my skirts and run down the hall, checking every room. The library. Empty. The sitting room. Empty. My panic builds with each door I throw open.

There are guards everywhere, but not mine.

Not Anton.

Not Dmitri.

Where is he?

Two of Vadim's guards appear at the end of the hallway. They look at me like I'm a wild animal that's escaped its cage.

"Where is he?" I demand, marching toward them in my wedding gown. "Where's Anton?"

They exchange glances.

"Ma'am, you should return to your guests?—"

"WHERE IS HE?" My voice cracks, echoing off the walls.

"We don't know who you mean."

Liars. They're all fucking liars.

I spin around and head for the main staircase. My dress is so heavy I can barely lift it, but I don't stop. I check every room, ignoring the ballroom where the guests are waiting for me to make my journey down the aisle.

I know he’s not in there.

I go to the kitchen. Staff members scatter like startled birds as I barrel through in my white gown, calling his name.

"Anton! ANTON!"

Nothing. He's nowhere.

I burst through the doors that lead to the garden, my white heels sinking into the soft earth. The white fabric drags through the dirt, staining the hem brown, but I don't care. I run toward our spot, the place where he first kissed me.

Empty.

The chapel. Maybe he went to the chapel, to our place.

I gather the heavy skirts and run, ignoring the looks of confusion from the guests milling about.

He’s not there.

No one is.

I return to the house and find another guard. One I’ve seen speaking with Dmitri before.

“Where is Dmitri?” I ask.

The man shrugs. “Haven’t seen him.”

That’s not possible. Dmitri wouldn’t miss this. He’s Anton’s shadow.

Something is wrong.

Panic chews at the edges of my stomach. The fear is threatening to take me down. A little voice in the back of my mind says Mikhail killed them both and fed them to the dogs.

Mom appears behind me as I wander the upstairs corridor again. “You’re going to sweat through your bodice at this rate,” she says, fanning me with her hand. “Calm down.”

I whirl toward her. “Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“Please,” I whimper, grabbing her wrist. “Anton. Has anyone seen Anton?”

Her face twitches. She covers it quickly with a too-bright smile. “Why would I see him? He’s not part of the ceremony.”

“Don’t,” I hiss. “Don’t do this. I have to see him. Where is he?”

“Don’t be stupid, Lena. You’re getting married. Focus on surviving this without more drama. For your sake and ours.”

“Is he alive?”

“I don’t know,” she says softly.

A sob escapes my lips and I nearly collapse.

“Come with me,” she murmurs.

I barely feel my feet moving as she takes me back to my room.

“You’re a mess.” She goes into the bathroom and returns with a cloth. “Your makeup. Oh Lena, your dress!”

“I don’t care.”

“You know what has to be done,” she says.

My mother sits me down at the vanity and begins dabbing at my tear-streaked makeup with gentle strokes. Her hands are steady, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she presses her lips together.

"Listen to me," she says quietly, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You will survive this."

"How can you say that?" My voice comes out broken, hollow. "You don't know what he's like. What he's capable of."

"I know exactly what men like Mikhail are capable of." Her hand stills on my cheek. "But I also know what women like us can endure. We are survivors, Lena. It's in our blood."

She continues working, covering the evidence of my breakdown with more makeup. Making me presentable for my own funeral.

"The best way to survive is to keep your head down," she continues, her voice barely above a whisper. "Don't fight him directly. Not at first. Learn his weaknesses. Be smart about when and how you resist."

I watch her in the mirror, searching her face. "That's not living. That's just... existing."

"Sometimes existing is enough. Sometimes it's everything." She pauses, her hand hovering over my face. "And sometimes, fate intervenes when you least expect it."

Something in her tone makes me turn to look at her directly. "What do you mean?"

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Nothing. I just know how strong you are. Stronger than you realize."

"Mama, do you know something? Is there?—"

"I know that you have more fight in you than any woman I've ever met," she interrupts, applying lipstick to my mouth with careful strokes. "I know that you're resourceful. And I know that Mikhail underestimates you."

"He'll kill me," I whisper. "Eventually, he'll get tired of me and?—"

"He wouldn't dare." She hands me a tissue. I take it and slip it between my lips, smacking the paper until she takes it. "Not until you produce children, at least. And there are ways..." She trails off, glancing toward the door.

"Ways to what?"

She leans closer. "Ways to prevent children without him knowing it. Ways to buy yourself time."

My eyes widen. She suddenly sounds like an ally. Before I can ask her what she means, what methods she's talking about, heavy footsteps pound down the hallway.

"Elena!" My father's voice booms through the door, followed by aggressive knocking. "Get her out here! The guests are waiting!"

The door rattles under his fist. "Lena! Enough of this nonsense!"

My mother's face transforms back into the perfect mask of composure. She caps the lipstick and steps back, surveying her work.

"There," she says. "Beautiful."

I look at myself and don’t see beauty.

I see terror.

Sadness.

Resignation.

My mother opens the door and my father looks ready to murder.

Me.

He would murder me if I didn’t know what I was ordered to do.

“Let’s go. Now.” He extends his arm, waiting for me to hook my arm through his.

My mother nods once and then leaves us.

I fight the urge to vomit as my father practically drags me down the stairs.

At the entrance to the ballroom that has been transformed for the wedding, he pauses.

“Do not disappoint me,” he warns.

“You’ve already disappointed me,” I reply calmly.

The heavy wooden doors are opened.

I stand there with my father, watching as the guests rise to their feet.

The room is full. Candles flickering like a hundred tiny lies. The air smells of flowers and smoke from the candles.

My gown feels too tight. My lungs are panicking, trying to escape the corset. My heels clack against the floor as my father leads me down the aisle. I’m drifting. Floating.

I feel like a ghost.

Mikhail waits with a smug expression on his face. His hands are clasped in front of him like he’s some pious groom, not the executioner holding my fate hostage.

I search the pews, scanning each face for familiar blue eyes.

But there’s no sign of Anton.

He didn’t come.

Maybe he did leave.

Maybe he chose freedom.

Or maybe he’s dead.

Mikhail leans close. To our audience, it looks like he’s whispering something sweet.

I know better. “He’s dead, Lena,” he whispers. “There’s no running now. You’re mine. And I’ll make sure you pay for every second you gave him.”

My knees wobble. I don’t hear the priest at first. The world becomes a low buzz, like static underwater.

But somehow, I speak when I’m told. I bow. I lift my head. The ceremony moves forward.

We circle the analogion once.

Only once.

Because then—I see him.

My legs turn to pillars.

I can’t move.

Anton .

He’s strolling down the center aisle like a demon torn straight out of hell.

Blood trails from his temple. His knuckles are raw. One eye is almost swollen shut. His shirt is ripped and stained. There’s a gun in his hand.

And he’s walking like a man with nothing left to lose.

And he’s never looked more beautiful.

My avenging angel.

I knew he wouldn’t leave me.

Gasps ripple through the pews. The priest stumbles back, clutching his cross. Someone screams.

Mikhail spins, growling in Russian about failures and dead men.

Behind Anton, Dmitri strolls. Unlike the murderous expression on Anton’s beaten face, Dmitri is smiling. I notice he’s also sporting a black eye.

He looks happy.

If there was time, I would consider Dmitri’s expression, but there isn’t time.

Chaos explodes.

“Kill him!” Mikhail roars. “Kill them both!”

“No!” I scream.

I will not watch the love of my life be killed.

I can’t do it.

I lunge for Mikhail but he’s not the one with the gun.

“Stop it!” I shout.

It’s futile.

I recognize how futile it is, but I pummel Mikhail with my fists.

He shoves me off. “Kill them!” He orders his men once again.

I hear more shouting.

My father.

Vadim.

Guards are running from the back of the room.

I see one of them raise his gun, pointing it at Anton.

I scream only to be silenced with Mikhail’s fist to my face.