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I grit my teeth as soon as Aleksei waves me over to his desk. He’s been waiting there with his usual composed expression. Normally, I’d brace for another long lecture about leadership or some new threat looming on the streets, but today feels different. The moment I approach, my brother gets straight to the point.

“You don’t have to marry her. If you want out of this arrangement, we’ll deal with Evan Thorne some other way.”

I rub a hand over my jaw. “We need this alliance”

He exhales, sliding a file across the desk. “We have other options. We can secure a new partner in one of the neighboring territories. Evan isn’t indispensable. If you don’t want Seraphina, say the word. Nobody will think any less of you.”

It’s the opening I told myself I wanted: a chance to walk away from this complicated marriage. Yet the thought of leaving her with that vicious father of hers makes my blood stir. I keep thinking about the last time I saw her, the way she threw insults at me during dinner—insults meant to drive me off. Instead of repelling me, it drew me in.

Part of me can’t stand her arrogance. Another part respects her for daring to stand up to men like us. And then there’s something else—an odd urge to shield her from that bastard father who treats her like an object. If not me, she’ll end up being forced to marry someone else eventually. Of that, I have no doubt.

My silence stretches. Aleksei lifts a brow. “Are you sure you want this woman, Grigor? You barely know her.”

I scowl. “I know enough. She’s defiant. She’s stuck under Evan’s thumb. He’d use her until there’s nothing left. I’ll take her away from that. And if it benefits the Bratva, that’s a bonus.”

He nods once. “So you’ve made up your mind?”

“Yeah.” I square my shoulders. “If I can protect her, and the alliance remains ours, that’s the path I’m taking. It’s best for everyone.”

Aleksei drums his fingers on the table, thinking. “Is it what’s best for you, brother? Marriage is a commitment. For better or worse, you and Seraphina will be bound together.”

I shrug. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice. This is necessary.”

Aleksei sighs, then pushes his chair back. “Fine. But don’t expect her to make it easy. Evan’s daughter is known for her stubborn streak. You’re sure you can handle that?”

I give a dry smile. “I’ll handle it.”

***

The next day, I pick Seraphina up in one of our black SUVs. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a fitted turtleneck, an outfit that shows off her figure in ways that are distracting—though I suspect she absolutely knows this. She slips into the passenger seat without a word, keeping her gaze fixed out the window as if she’d rather look at anything but me.

I start the engine, resisting the urge to comment on the silence. If she wants to brood, that’s fine. For now, I plan on taking her to the upscale district for some wedding errands we’re expected to complete. Her father insisted on it. He wants this ceremony to be flashy, something to parade before potential associates. But I’m not above using the day for my own purposes: flaunting my new catch in front of the whole damn city.

As we pull up to a boutique known for high-end wedding attire, Seraphina finally decides to talk. “Is this your idea or my father’s?”

“He told me to escort you to find a suitable dress,” I reply. “I’m just facilitating.”

She snorts. “So I can’t even pick out the attire for my forced wedding with my sister or friends. You know, like a bride is supposed to do.” She pops open the door, stepping out before I can respond.

I follow her inside, stepping around a few gawking salespeople who recognize me. I give them a silent glare that has them all backing off. Good. I don’t need them crowding her or making this any more uncomfortable than it already is. We reach the main floor, which is lined with pristine gowns in glossy cases.

The manager, a woman with a professional smile, approaches. “Welcome, Mr. Barkov. We’ve been expecting you. Shall we show your fiancée to a fitting room?”

Seraphina opens her mouth, probably to argue about the word fiancée . I give a small nod, ignoring the tension vibrating off her. “Yes, do that. Make sure she has the best selection.”

The manager ushers Seraphina away, leaving me to wait on a plush sofa. I settle there, letting my mind wander. Aleksei’s offer to back out lingers in my thoughts. This is my choice now. I could make a call, end it. But the memory of Seraphina’s father sneering at her, treating her like a disposable asset, plays on repeat in my head. No. I’m not abandoning her to that fate.

My phone buzzes. It’s one of my men, reporting that Evan’s men are sniffing around nearby, spying on us. Typical. He wants to keep tabs on every detail. To be fair, my men are lurking in the background, too. I shoot back a curt text telling them to keep an eye on any developments.

When I look up, Seraphina is walking toward me, and for a moment, everything else fades. The gown she’s chosen molds to her figure like a second skin, hugging every curve. The fabric is smooth and shimmering, catching the light with each step she takes. A high neckline draws attention to the graceful curve of her shoulders, while the sleeves taper elegantly to her wrists, leaving a hint of lace detail along the edges. The bodice is fitted, cinching at her waist before flaring into a cascading skirt that trails behind her in a soft, sweeping train.

My breath stalls for just an instant. The simplicity of the gown only serves to emphasize her natural beauty. She moves like she owns the room, and though her expression is all defiance—glaring at me with her chin high, her eyes daring me to say something—there’s no denying how stunning she looks.

The manager stands by with her hands clasped in front of her chest, beaming in approval as if she knows she’s witnessing a moment meant to impress. But it’s not just the dress. It’s the way Seraphina wears it, with a kind of fire that burns. She could stop hearts with that combination of beauty and attitude—and she damn well knows it.

“So?” Seraphina challenges. “Is this what a Barkov bride is supposed to wear? Or did you want something more… conservative?”

I rise from the sofa, stepping closer to her. The manager discreetly moves back. “You look good.”

She huffs. “Good? That’s it? I thought you’d want your underlings drooling at the sight of your new trophy.”

I narrow my eyes. “If I catch any underling drooling over you, I’ll knock his teeth out. Nobody stares at what’s mine.”

She flinches, and her eyes flash. “I’m not yours, Barkov. I’m forced into this wedding, but let’s get one thing straight: I belong to no one.”

A flicker of possessiveness surges in me. “For now, maybe. But soon enough, you’ll wear my ring.”

Her lips curl into a snarl. “Keep dreaming.”

I hold her stare, neither of us moving. Then, the manager clears her throat politely. “Would you like to try another gown, Miss?”

Seraphina scoffs and tears her gaze away from me. “Sure. Why not? Let’s see how many ways we can torture me with yards of overpriced fabric.”

She marches off to the dressing area. I go back to the sofa, raking a hand through my hair. My attention drifts to the men who hover at the edge of the store. A few well-dressed patrons glance our way, some with curiosity, some with cautious awe. I make a pointed glare at a younger guy who dares to stare too long at Seraphina’s retreating figure. He blanches and scurries off.

Minutes later, she returns in a gown that’s more traditional and less form-fitting. Still, the effect is stunning. The neckline draws the eye to her collarbone, and the skirt flares around her legs with elegance. She looks like the embodiment of every bride in those lavish wedding magazines. It strikes me that under her anger and defiance, there’s a certain vulnerability. Her father’s world never allowed her a normal life, and now I’m roping her into mine. A pang of something almost like pity twists in my chest.

She catches me staring and arches a brow. “Don’t get any ideas. Just tell me which one to get.”

I shrug. “It’s your wedding. Wear whatever you want.”

She laughs without humor. “You say that like I have a choice. I’m just picking the least ridiculous option.” Then she murmurs something to the manager about adjusting the fit in the bodice. When the woman walks away, I take her place at Seraphina’s side.

“Why are you so determined to fight this at every turn?”

She whirls on me, and the gown swishes around her ankles. “Because I never asked for this. My father decided I’d be his bargaining chip. You’re no better, swooping in to claim me because it’s convenient for your Bratva politics. It’s insulting.”

I keep my voice calm. “I’m not swooping. I’m offering a way out of his house.”

She crosses her arms over the gown, shaking her head. “You act like you’re saving me. Did it ever occur to you that I’d rather save myself?”

My response is swallowed by a knock at the door from a sales associate. “Miss? We have another dress if you’d like to see it.”

She makes a pointed face at me, then disappears into the fitting room again. My phone buzzes once more—this time, it’s Maksim. He wants an update on how things are going with Seraphina. I type a quick message: We’ll be done soon. She’s picking a dress. Simple, direct. No mention of the verbal sparring match we’ve been locked in since we arrived.

Eventually, Seraphina reemerges, wearing her regular clothes and carrying a bag with the chosen gown. She tosses her hair back. “I’m done here.”

“Good.” I motion to one of the employees to ring up the purchase. While I pay, she stands off to the side, glaring at the poor mannequins.

When we exit onto the bustling street, I place a hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the SUV. She jerks away. “Don’t touch me.”

I grit my teeth but drop my hand. Fine. If she wants to play the ice queen, I’ll let her. But the need to mark my territory flares again when I notice a few bystanders gawking at her. They’re quick to avert their eyes once they see my expression.

We drive in silence, passing blocks of trendy shops and restaurants. I steer the conversation to the upcoming ceremony. “We need to meet the officiant tomorrow. Some paperwork to finalize the date.”

She folds her arms and stares at the traffic outside. “I’m not signing anything.”

I keep my attention on the road. “It’s just a formality. You’ll sign.”

She scoffs. “Arrogant as always.”

We fall quiet until I stop in front of her father’s estate. Guards linger near the entrance, eyeing the SUV.

“This is your final chance to walk away,” she warns. “If you don’t call off the wedding, you’re stuck with me. What a miserable life that would be.”

Amusement tugs at my mouth. “I don’t scare that easily. There are worse fates.”

“I’m serious. Don’t expect loyalty. Don’t expect love. Don’t expect me to play the obedient wife. You can force me to the altar, but you’ll never truly have me.”

Something about her rebellious declaration only fuels the possessive streak I’ve been trying to ignore all day. “You say that now, but once I have that ring on your finger, you’ll be mine. And you’ll learn what that means.”

She snorts. “Dream on.”

Seraphina shoves her door open, but before she can climb out, I grip her wrist. She tenses, startled. My voice drops. “When we exchange vows, Seraphina, you’ll be mine in every sense. That’s a promise.”

Her eyes widen before she jerks away and steps out of the SUV. She strides up the driveway, not bothering to look back.

I watch her until she disappears inside, with my blood pumping hot through my veins. There’s no going back now, not for me. Aleksei gave me the choice, and I’ve made it. She’ll be my wife, and she’ll know exactly what it means to belong to Grigor Barkov.