Page 7 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Lena

I look like a frosted cupcake.

The dress is hideous.

The seamstress makes another grunting noise as she tugs at the corset, pulling it to the point breathing is painful.

I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering for the millionth time what version of me they think this dress is supposed to represent. It’s not me.

Not even close. It’s lace and lies.

And a lot of tulle.

So. Much. Tulle.

The dress was chosen by my father and signed off by Vadim Orlov himself. Apparently, it “symbolizes purity and tradition.”

It symbolizes imprisonment.

But I smile and nod like a good little fiancée while a stranger adjusts the hem of a dress I didn’t choose for a wedding I didn’t ask for to a man I do not love. Or like.

Welcome to my fairy tale.

“Suck it in!” The seamstress jerks hard on the cords of the corset.

“Ouch!”

I nearly puke as she attempts to squeeze the life out of me.

“No more pasta,” she mutters.

My mouth drops open. How dare she!

“If the dress wasn’t so hideous?—”

“Stop. Talking.”

She jerks hard again and I’m certain my eyeballs are going to pop out of my head.

I try to lift my arms but the dress restricts my movement. How do they expect me to walk down the aisle if I can’t breathe?

“Mother, please.”

My appeal to her over the top of the seamstress’s head does nothing. She’s busy on her phone.

“It’s beautiful."

“ Mamochka.”

My attempt to call her mommy and appeal to her tender side fails miserably.

“Lena, just wear the dress. It’s two hours. Then you’ll put on the other dress for the party. Your husband?—”

“Not my husband,” I cut in.

“Your future husband and father have chosen this dress for you.”

I roll my eyes. “They should wear it.”

“Lena.”

“I should get to choose what they wear.”

My mother ignores me. I’ve been complaining for hours and I’m getting nowhere.

My mother is still glued to her phone, frantically typing messages with a frown.

“You’re going to get wrinkles,” I warn her.

“This is such a mess.”

"What now?" I ask.

"The guest list changed again." She doesn't look up from her screen. "Vadim wants to add another fifty people."

"Fifty? Where are we supposed to put them?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "The caterer is threatening to quit. And security..." She trails off, shaking her head.

“What about security?”

I’m not naive. I play the part of the airheaded, spoiled girl well, but that’s not me. I know how to stay alive in my world. The men in the Bratva don’t want to hear women. We are there to look pretty and provide sex.

No more. No less.

I have learned to be invisible. To appear too stupid to know better.

And I know my wedding to Mikhail Orlov is a power play.

The marriage makes the other families nervous. That means they will do anything to stop the wedding.

Including killing me or Mikhail.

Or both.

Mom waves a hand. "Nothing you need to worry about."

But I do worry.

"How many guards will there be?" I ask.

"Enough." Her tone suggests I should drop it.

I won't.

"I'm not stupid. If there are security concerns?—"

"There are always security concerns." She finally looks up from her phone. "Your father and Vadim have everything under control."

“That’s why we’re here,” I say.

She finally looks up from her phone. “Yes.”

Bullshit.

My family was moved into the Orlov Estate this morning.

It wasn’t planned.

I woke up to my mother breezing into my hotel room announcing the move.

I’m here to be babysat. Or guarded.

Dread pools in my belly.

There’s a knock at the door.

Not a gentle one.

I try not to jump, but even the seamstress looks scared.

My mother gets up to answer the door.

The moment it opens, my stomach sinks.

Mikhail.

He steps into the room like he owns it—owns me. He’s wearing an expensive tailored suit. His hair is too perfect, his smile cold enough to freeze hell.

And he’s furious.

I feel it like a drop in air pressure. Like thunder coming.

“Out,” he snaps to the seamstress and my mother.

The seamstress practically trips over her sewing kit in her rush to escape.

I don’t blame her.

I look to my mother, silently begging her not to leave me alone.

I see the resignation on her face. “I’ll be back to go over the new flower arrangements.”

I open my mouth to argue, but it’s pointless.

“Mikhail,” I say quickly, forcing a nervous laugh. “You can’t see me in the dress. It’s bad luck.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.

“Bad luck,” he repeats, voice flat. “You think I give a fuck about bad luck?”

Nope.

He walks slowly toward me, the kind of slow that makes my pulse stutter. Like a tiger stalking its prey and not in a good way.

I tell myself not to show fear. I paste on my silly smile, relaxing my features and doing my best to be the empty bobblehead he thinks I am.

“I know what you did last night.”

Ice floods my veins.

My heart punches my ribs.

The corset is suffocating me. I’m going to pass out.

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

My voice is higher than usual.

“You ditched your guard.”

Oh God.

He knows I was gone.

But… not with who.

If he really knew, I’d already be dead.

There wouldn’t be a conversation. It would be a bullet between the eyes.

He steps closer. Too close.

I can smell his sour scent. It’s vodka but for some reason it smells sour and tart on him. It clashes with the overpowering cologne he always wears.

How can I spend the rest of my life smelling the man?

I nearly whimper but tell myself to fight it.

“You think you’re clever, Lena?” he asks. His voice is low and dangerous. Goosebumps pop up on my arms. “You don’t think people are watching? You think I don’t know when my fiancée runs off in the middle of the goddamn night?”

“I just needed air,” I say quickly. “That’s all. I went to my room. Showered.”

My words are stilted and he knows I’m lying.

“A walk?” His smile is cruel. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No—”

“You’re not just stupid. You’re na?ve. Do you think I’ll tolerate this kind of behavior when you’re my wife?”

I flinch.

Every instinct tells me to defend myself. To fight back.

I’ve seen what he does when he’s angry. He’s broken things. Men. Bones.

I will not let him break me.

So I play the role. The one they all expect. Soft. Submissive. Silly little Lena.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, eyes downcast. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right,” he says, stepping closer, hand brushing my arm. “It won’t.”

His touch crawls across my skin like rot. I shudder and he smiles. He thinks it’s his touch making me shiver with excitement.

It’s revulsion.

“From now on, you don’t go anywhere without your guard. Not for a walk. Not to the bathroom. Not to breathe. Do you understand?”

I nod.

He tilts his head, fingers gripping my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“I said— do you understand? ”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He releases me. Smirks.

“I should lock you in here until the wedding.”

“You won’t need to,” I say. “I’ll stay put.”

“You bet your pretty ass you will.”

His hand slides down my arm, fingers brushing the fabric of the dress.

“You look good in white,” he murmurs. “But I can’t wait to see what you look like out of it.”

I freeze, stomach lurching.

I’ve managed to avoid sex with him, claiming we need to wait until our wedding night. My father and his actually agreed to that concession.

I don’t know why. I don’t care.

But now, standing in this dress that feels like a cage, I realize my time is running out. His eyes roam over me like he's already undressing me in his mind.

"Two weeks," he says, voice dropping to something that makes my skin crawl. "Then you'll be mine. Completely."

His hand moves to my waist, fingers pressing into the corset. I can't breathe. Can't move. The dress traps me as effectively as his presence.

"You know what happens to wives who disobey their husbands in our world," he continues conversationally. "My father taught me well. A firm hand keeps a woman in line."

Terror claws up my throat. I've heard the stories. Seen the bruises on other wives at family gatherings, hidden beneath expensive makeup and designer clothes.

"I won't disobey," I manage.

"No," he smiles. He pulls the string for the corset.

I gasp. Relief that I can breathe and terror at the idea of him undressing me.

He’ll see the marks Anton left.

And then he’ll kill me.

His hand slowly pushes the corset open. My hand moves to hold up the front of the dress. I’m not wearing a bra.

He’ll see.

“Lena, Lena, Lena,” he whispers. “The things I’m going to do to you.”

The door bursts open.

“Oh my GOD, you guys, I brought shoes! ”

Kira’s voice stops Mikhail’s hand.

She strides in like she owns the place, holding a tray with two cups of coffee and several shopping bags hanging off her arm.

She’s wearing a pink dress that hits mid-thigh and heels that could be deadly. Her thick-white rimmed glasses cover half her face. Her hair is done and she looks just like she always does—like she’s ready to party.

It’s an act.

I’m not the only one who’s figured out how to fly under the radar.

“Lena, I found the ones you liked! And bonus, I brought caffeine!”

She pauses when she sees Mikhail.

I have no doubt in my mind she knew he was in here.

Mikhail steps back, instantly annoyed. “You can’t just barge in.”

“I’m so sorry! Lena told me she was trying on her beautiful dress. I didn’t think I would find her fiancé in here. I’ll leave.”

He scowls.

“No! I need the shoes to make sure the hem is right.”

“Yes! I brought five pairs. We’ll have you try on all of them.”

Mikhail glares at her. Then me.

“I’ll be back,” he says. “We’re not done.”

He walks out, slamming the door behind him.

The moment he’s gone, my knees buckle.

Kira catches me.

“Shit,” she breathes. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“He had that look again.”

“I know.”

She helps me sit, then crouches in front of me.

"What did he want?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I gesture to the corset hanging loose around my torso.

"He knows I left last night. He was... making sure I understood the consequences of disobedience."

Kira's face hardens. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not yet."

She stands and walks to the door, pressing her ear against it. After a moment, she returns, satisfied we're alone.

“You shouldn’t have gone out,” she says softly.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I meet her eyes.

“I had to.”

She sits beside me. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I know.”

“If Mikhail finds out?—”

“I know, Kira.”

I sink back against the cushions.

“I have to see him again.”

Kira blinks. “Lena?—”

“I need to. One last time. Just one more time. Once I’m married, I’ll never see him again.”

Then she exhales. “God help me, I’ll cover for you.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you really don’t,” she says. “Now take off that god-awful gown before you suffocate.”

I do.

But I still can’t breathe.