Page 8 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Anton

M oving into the Orlov estate is like willingly walking into a pit of vipers.

Every man here is loyal to Vadim.

Technically, I am, too.

On paper, it’s a security reassignment.

Temporary. Routine.

Nothing that should raise eyebrows. But I know better. Something is up.

Although, I don’t believe anyone knows about Lena and me. I’d already be dead.

This feels different.

I’m exposed.

I’ve operated on the fringes of this world for years. Enforcer. Ghost. Loyal, efficient, and invisible. I do just enough to avoid punishment but not enough to bring attention to myself.

Living under the same roof as Vadim Orlov? That’s another level of exposure. It puts me a little too close to the past I’ve spent thirty years trying to hide from.

Do they know?

Do they remember ?

I don’t think so. Not yet. My face isn’t the same as it was when I was a boy. And the name Anton Malikov doesn’t show up on any family tree. But still— blood recognizes blood.

And if someone looks too closely, if Vadim feels it...

I might not walk back out of this house alive.

The room they assign me is on the east wing of the compound, not far from the maids’ quarters. It’s the size of a closet with nothing more than a narrow bed, a dresser and a chair. It’s a far cry from my luxury apartment.

Part of me wonders if that’s intentional. A reminder of my station in the organization. It’s a message.

We trust you to be a good soldier.

I’m not worthy of anything more than modest accommodations.

Fine. I’ve slept in worse places. Places with mold on the walls and nothing but an old, dank mattress tossed in the corner of a dark room. I don’t need comfort. I never sleep deep. Not anymore.

That’s the kind of thing that gets you dead.

I unpack my bag that’s filled with weapons. I slide one under the mattress. Another in the bottom dresser drawer because everyone always looks in the top drawer. I’ve just finished replacing the vent where my knife is stashed when there’s a knock.

Death doesn’t knock.

It’s one of the perimeter guards. A young guy who’s just a little too eager.

“Malikov,” he says. His eyes drop to the gun in my hand. “Sasha wants you in the dining room.”

I smirk. “A bed and a meal. Lucky me.”

He looks confused. “He’s not eating.”

I don’t roll my eyes, but I want to. Obviously, he’s not eating. Sasha is one of Mikhail’s guards. Like we’re going to sit down and break bread in the formal dining room.

It’s a meeting. Orders. Demands.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He swallows and nods.

The hallway stretches ahead with the red carpet and dark panels making it feel like we’re in a cave.

Every surface screams wealth and power. The walls are lined with oil paintings in heavy gold frames, each one depicting some long-dead Russian aristocrat or battle scene from the motherland's bloody history.

I recognize some of the faces. Vadim's ancestors. My ancestors. The Orlov family tree stretches back centuries, rooted in violence and watered with blood. They've been killing and conquering since before the Tsars fell. The Bratva is just the latest incarnation of their legacy.

It always looks different on the outside, but it’s still the same powerful force moving in the shadows. Pulling strings and running the city with ruthless control.

The ceiling soars fifteen feet above us, detailed with intricate moldings and a chandelier that could crush a man if it fell. Everything here is designed to intimidate. To remind visitors that they are small, temporary, and disposable.

I know from research the estate has been stolen several times over, like a castle in medieval times. Every owner adds their own mark. Apparently, Vadim’s mark is ostentatious.

And not in a good way.

The young man leads the way. I’ve been here before, but never as a live-in guest. It will take me some time to get used to the layout, something I plan to do today. I can’t afford not to know where the exits are.

We end up in the foyer, a place I do remember. The dining room will be ahead to my left. We pass several guards that all look at me with a combination of fear and disgust.

I’m an enforcer. The hitman. I’m the man that gets his hands dirty so these assholes can bask in the luxury of their Pakhan’s estate.

There is no love lost between any of us.

My escort drops off as I walk into the dining room.

Sasha has his arms crossed and looks pissed. I follow the direction of his glare.

Lena.

She’s got her back to us and her phone to her ear. She’s wearing a short black skirt and boots that nearly reach the hem of the skirt. She’s got her blonde hair in a ponytail and a pink sweater on.

She looks like something out of a dream I can’t forget.

I show no reaction and keep my scowl in place.

Lena’s chattering about a handbag or some shit.

“Lena!” Sasha’s voice makes her jump.

And that pisses me off.

I have to fight the urge not to punch him in his throat for yelling at my woman.

My woman?

What the fuck?

I want to argue with myself about claiming her, but deep down, I know.

She is mine.

I don’t give a fuck that she’s marrying another man.

She’s mine.

Lena ends her conversation and turns around. Her eyes lock on mine for the briefest second but she shows no recognition.

She knows the game.

I don’t smile. I don’t greet her like anything other than a bodyguard meeting his new client.

“This is Lena Rostova,” Sasha says.

“Miss Rostova,” I say.

“Your name?” Her tone is haughty like she’s speaking to one of her servants.

“Anton. Anton Malikov.”

Her eyes move over me with boredom. “Great. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Lena,” Sasha growls.

His phone rings. Lena and I stare at each other while Sasha speaks into his phone.

“I have to go,” Sasha says. “Lena, don’t try to lose him.”

I snort. “She will not lose me. I’m not like your men.”

That earns me a dirty look, but we all know it’s true. I wouldn’t have been able to fuck her in a bathroom if his men were worth a shit.

I wait until the door clicks shut behind him.

She opens her mouth to speak and I shake my head. I jerk my chin up to the corner of the room where I know cameras are hidden.

“I’m going to my room,” she says in that same haughty tone.

“Let’s go.”

“I don’t need you to follow me.”

“I think you misunderstand my job,” I reply. “And no one asked what you needed.”

Her eyes flash with amusement at our little game, but she keeps up the charade.

She walks past me, purposely bumping her shoulder against mine.

And fuck me. She smells so good. And those boots. I want to hike up that skirt and fuck her on the table.

I follow several steps behind her and have to fight the urge to check out her ass. The heels lift her ass. Her ponytail swings back and forth with every sway of her hips.

She’s playing her part well. The pampered princess throwing a fit because she has security.

I’m going to assume there aren’t cameras in her room.

I fucking hope not because that’s another level of depravity I’m not ready to deal with.

Lena throws open her bedroom door, bitching about wanting privacy. I follow her and slam it shut.

Then she spins around, fear in her eyes. I go to her, grabbing her arms and checking her over for marks.

“You’re shaking.”

She stiffens. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are. Did someone say something?”

“No.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

But her voice is too thin, too tight. She’s terrified.

I force myself to take a step back. “Did they find out?”

She hesitates.

“No,” she whispers. “But… I think they suspect.”

My jaw ticks. “Then you need to be more careful.”

“I was careful?—”

“You weren’t careful enough. You slipped your guard in public.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be there.”

“Exactly. That’s why it was dangerous.”

Her mouth opens like she wants to argue, but I cut her off.

“And for the love of God,” I murmur, leaning in just enough for my voice to wrap around her. “Stop looking at me like you want to climb me.”

Her eyes go wide.

“Someone’s going to notice.”

“I—I’m not?—”

“You are.”

She flushes. Pink blooms high on her cheeks.

I want to kiss those pretty blossoms. Run the pads of my thumbs across her face.

Nibble on her earlobes like I know she loves.

Mark her where no one else can see.

But I can’t.

Not here. Not when the wrong glance could get us both killed.

I step back. She sways slightly like the absence of my body from her personal space weakens her.

Before either of us can speak again, the door opens without warning.

And in walks the devil.

Mikhail.

My fingers twitch toward the gun holstered at my back.

Not because I need it.

Because I want it.

I want to kill the fucker. The rage has been the only thing keeping me going the last ten years or so. Now, knowing this is the man that’s going to marry and claim Lena—the urge is nearly beyond my own steely self-control.

Mikhail looks from me to her and then smiles as he leans in to kiss her cheek.

“I see you’ve met your personal security guard,” Mikhail says. “My father says he’s the best. He’s going to make sure no one touches a hair on your pretty little head.”

He slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her against him. She’s doing her best not to recoil but I can see the fear in her eyes.

I imagine putting a bullet between his eyes.

Mikhail’s hand slips from around her shoulders and brushes the side of her breast before he grabs a handful of her ass.

“You’re going to be a good girl, right, babe?” Mikhail asks with the smile of a predator.

She smiles back. But it’s not real. Her mouth curves, but her eyes go dark. Hollow. She’s trained herself to pretend. To survive.

And I fucking hate it.

He slaps her ass hard enough that she nearly falls off those four-inch heeled boots she’s wearing.

I stand silent, still as a statue.

His arm snakes around her waist again. She flinches. Just barely. But I see it. Hell, he probably sees it too.

And it excites him.

He wants a woman he can break. Something delicate to smash into obedience and parade like a prize.

This is what Orlov men do to the things they claim to love.

“Make sure she doesn’t disappear again,” Mikhail says to me. “My fiancée has a habit of running off when she’s bored.”

She says nothing.

Neither do I.

“What do you think of my bride?” Mikhail asks with his hand sliding up her side again.

Time slows.

He’s testing me.

“She’s beautiful,” I say with no emotion. “Looks like she’ll make a fine wife.”

Mikhail’s smile tightens.

“Well,” he says. “Let’s hope she keeps behaving, then.”

He turns back to her and brushes a kiss over her cheek. “I’ll be back later. Be good.”

He leaves the room and closes the door behind him. It’s a show of power. He knows I would never dare touch his bride.

“He’s watching you,” I say finally.

“I know.”

“Don’t give him a reason to get violent.”

“You think he needs a reason?”

That hurts more than it should.

“Will you be staying in your room?”

“Yes.”

“Lena.”

“Yes,” she says. “I don’t want to leave my room. I don’t want to be out there.”

“Lena, I will protect you. Don’t run from me.”

I see the sadness in her eyes as she nods slowly.

I turn and leave before I do something I’ll regret.

I make it halfway down the corridor before I slam a fist into the wall.

“Feeling better?” Dmitri’s voice floats from further down the hallway.

His room is next to mine. I should be offended that they don’t think I can do anything without my sidekick but I’m glad he’s here.

I walk past him without saying a word.

He follows.

“To the gym, I assume?” he says lightly. “You look like you’re five seconds from setting the compound on fire.”

I don’t respond.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, voice more serious now. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m about to kill someone’ look.”

We reach the door to the gym. I shove it open.

The room’s empty.

Good.

I don’t need an audience. I pull off my t-shirt and toss it on the floor. I don’t care that I’m wearing jeans.

I have to do something or I will lose my shit.

I start taping my hands.

“You know, for a guy who’s built his whole career on staying in the shadows, you’re being real loud right now.”

“Leave it alone.”

“I’m trying. But you’re not exactly subtle.”

I pause. Turn to face him.

“You want to say something, say it.”

He leans in slightly conscious of the fact there are likely cameras in here as well.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, Anton. You keep looking at her like that, they’ll know. And if they know?—”

“I know what happens.”

He meets my eyes. “Then act like it.”

I say nothing.

He exhales, shaking his head. “You were never good at this part.”

“What part?”

“Pretending you don’t care.”