Page 1 of Bratva’s Stolen Bride (Obsessed Bratva Bosses #1)

PAYTON

A hand clamps over my mouth, and a voice says, “Easy, printsessa!”

I scream, but it’s already muffled completely.

My brain stutters. Another hand grabs me. I throw myself away from the man, but I’m surprised and overpowered. My eyes are wide, desperately searching for someone and there’s no one to see—I’m on my way to university early, and this residential street is quiet—apart from a nondescript white van.

Struggling, kicking, I’m dragged back and a door slams shut as fabric is shoved over my head. An engine roars and the vehicle accelerates, putting me off balance, but I’m held tight as terror explodes in me.

I fight. I’m a hissing, scratching wildcat, intent on escape, even against all the odds.

This can’t be happening.

But they have all the advantages. Fingers bite into my wrists and ankles, and I can’t see. My bag is yanked from my shoulder and my keys and phone from the pockets of my shorts.

I’m pushed into a seat, and my wrists are tied.

In the dark, I’m totally disoriented. Fear is sharp in my veins. There’s low conversation in a guttural foreign language, and it’s only then that I realise I’m not hurt. I’m restrained, but no one has hit me, or so much as sworn as I struck out.

“Please.” My voice is high-pitched and scared. I barely sound like myself. Even in years of the care-system, I’ve never been this afraid. “Ivan?”

It’s a guess, but when your newly ex-boyfriend is furious with you, and the son of a Russian mafia boss, it’s probably accurate.

No one replies.

“Please. Get Ivan.” I’m trembling. My mind is whirling. I had an argument with Ivan yesterday, this has to be related?

My sister Hayley is going to be distraught. I can’t die, I haven’t lost my virginity yet. This can’t be the end, I haven’t even finished my degree. Is this what happened to my sister Taylor? Why have I been kidnapped? There’s nothing special about me.

“Please let me go.” There’s still no response.

Then I’m pulled roughly to my feet. There’s the sound of the door sliding open. My body jolts as the vehicle brakes.

Sunlight and a breath of wind touch my skin as I’m shoved from the van.

Someone ducks my head, sits me into a smooth leather seat, cuts whatever holds my hands, and pulls the blindfold away.

I blink at the brightness of the sudden light, dazed.

“Pakhan,” a male voice says respectfully, and a car door thunks shut.

I jerk my head around, trying to get my bearings, but my eyes take a second to adjust. I’m in another vehicle, I realise as it moves. It’s dimly lit, with leather seats, and darkened windows. A luxurious limo, with matte black and sparkling chrome.

For a moment, I think I’m on my own.

Then I see him.

A man. He has black hair that’s scattered with silver-grey.

His blue eyes are so deep they’re almost navy, and his lashes are jet-black, and outrageously long for a man.

They might make him look feminine, except for the shadow of stubble over his square jaw, and the bushy eyebrows that are low.

His nose looks like it’s been broken in several places, but his mouth is wide and his lips plush, even set as they are in a serious line.

Arrogantly sprawled opposite, he has one arm casually over the back of the seat, elegant fingers trailing down, and the other hand resting on his knee. Both are crossed with black ink. Tattoos.

His legs are apart, and he’s wearing a charcoal suit with a pale-blue shirt that brings out the blue in his eyes.

His shirt is open at the collar, the tie loosened, and the dip between his collarbones, the pronounced lump of his Adam’s apple, and a few curls of black hair have an unfamiliar heat curling at the bottom of my abdomen.

He’s gorgeous, and from his air of authority and the silver in his hair, seems older than me.

Old enough to be my dad, or someone else’s. The harsh shape of his face and the dark-blue of his eyes echo in me.

Ivan. He reminds me of my ex-boyfriend, if he were more mature, hotter, and with the power and confidence of money and influence.

And that’s when I know for sure I have to get out of here. My life is in danger.

I begin to shake.

I spin and grasp for the door handle. A mechanical sound of a lock clicking into place sounds, and nothing happens a split second before I yank.

I pull it again and again, hoping, even as the limo picks up speed, panic rising in my chest and spilling out of my throat in a high-pitched whine of terror.

Spinning around, I’m just in time to see the man pocketing a remote control. He raises one sardonic eyebrow, and a shiver goes down my spine.

Russian accents, this man being deferentially called Pakhan, me upsetting Ivan. It’s all too clear what’s happening, and if what Ivan said is true, I’m toast.

Everything is on the table for getting away.

Anything .

It has to be. His men have just shown me the power of the element of surprise when they bundled me into a van from the street, and now being unpredictable is the only hope I have.

I have the life expectancy of a butterfly caught in a tornado.

Because this man isn’t a random stranger. He’s my ex-boyfriend’s dad. And he’s a feared Bratva mafia boss with a reputation for unhinged brutality.