Page 1 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter one

The Stage

M ila

The smell hits me first—expensive cologne mixed with cigar smoke and something darker I don't want to identify. My heels click against concrete as two mountain-sized men escort me down a narrow staircase that looks like it leads straight to hell.

Which, honestly, it probably does.

"Keep moving, princess." The guard's accent is thick Russian, and his hand on my elbow feels like a steel trap. Not that I'm going anywhere. Three years of planning led me to this basement club in Brooklyn, and I'm not backing out now.

Even if every instinct I have is screaming at me to run.

The staircase opens into a room that shouldn't exist. Crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling that's been painted to look like the Sistine Chapel, casting prismatic light over what can only be described as the world's most fucked-up auction house.

Velvet curtains line the walls. A small stage sits at the front, complete with a podium and microphone.

And everywhere— everywhere —are men in expensive suits wearing masks.

Animal masks. Theatrical masks. Some crafted with such luxury they probably required their own security detail. The anonymity makes my skin crawl, but it also makes me grateful. If I can't see their faces, maybe they can't see how terrified I am behind all this careful planning.

"Holy shit," I whisper, then immediately wish I hadn't when several masked heads turn my way.

The guard chuckles, and it's not a nice sound. "First time at bride auction, yes? You learn quick or you learn hard."

Bride auction. The words taste like acid in my mouth, but they're also my ticket to everything I've worked for.

Three years ago, my brother Viktor was murdered.

Three years ago, my family's debt to the Bratva became my inheritance.

And three years ago, I started planning my revenge against the man responsible.

Alexei Morozov.

I scan the crowd, looking for him among the sea of masks and suits. My heart pounds so hard I'm surprised it's not echoing off the painted ceiling.

He has to be here. Men like him don't miss opportunities to buy women like livestock.

"Mila Kozlov." A new voice, female this time, with an accent that sounds more American than Russian. A woman in a black cocktail dress approaches with a clipboard. No mask, which immediately makes her more trustworthy than everyone else in this nightmare. "You're up in five minutes."

Five minutes. Jesus.

"Any questions?" she asks, like she's asking if I want cream in my coffee instead of whether I understand I'm about to be sold to the highest bidder.

"What happens if no one bids?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Someone always bids, honey. The question is how much they're willing to pay."

She walks away, leaving me standing at the edge of what I can only call organized chaos.

Men are drinking, talking in clusters, some openly staring at the three other women waiting their turn.

One girl can't be older than nineteen and looks like she's about to throw up.

Another keeps checking her phone like she's waiting for an Uber instead of a buyer.

The third woman catches my eye and nods. There's something in her expression that says we're all just trying to survive this . I nod back, and for a moment, I don't feel completely alone.

Then I see him .

Even with a black leather mask covering half his face, I know it's Alexei Morozov.

He's impossible to miss—six feet and change of solid muscle in a designer charcoal suit.

Dark hair shot through with silver at the temples.

Hands that could span my waist but have definitely done worse things than touch women.

Those hands killed my brother.

My vision goes white around the edges, and I have to grip the wall to keep from falling over. Three years of preparation, and I'm still not ready for the rage that hits me when I see him. It's like being punched in the chest and set on fire at the same time.

He's talking to another man—shorter, rounder, wearing a gold mask that makes him look like a demented sun god. But Alexei's attention isn't on the conversation. He's scanning the room like a predator looking for prey.

When his gaze lands on me, the world stops.

Even through the mask, I can feel the weight of his stare.

It starts at my face and moves down—over the black cocktail dress I chose specifically because it shows just enough skin to be appealing without looking desperate, over my legs, back up to my face.

It's a physical thing, that stare. Like he's already touching me.

My body's reaction is immediate and horrifying. Heat pools low in my belly, and my nipples tighten against the fabric of my dress. I hate him. I hate him. So why does my treacherous body respond like he's some kind of magnetic force?

"Ladies and gentlemen." The auctioneer's voice booms through speakers I hadn't noticed. "Welcome to tonight's very exclusive event."

Shit. It's starting.

The first girl—the young one who looked sick—gets called up. I try to focus on what's happening, but Alexei is still staring at me. Even when the bidding starts, even when other men are shouting numbers, his attention never wavers.

"Five thousand!"

"Eight!"

"Twelve!"

The girl sells for fifteen thousand dollars to a man in a wolf mask. She walks off the stage like she's walking to her execution, and maybe she is. The auction woman makes a note on her clipboard and calls the next name.

My heart is beating so fast I'm getting dizzy. This is it. This is my chance to get close to Viktor's killer. To make him pay for what he did to my family… So why do I suddenly want to run?

"Mila Kozlov."

My legs feel like jelly, but I force myself to walk toward the stage. The heels I picked because they make my legs look longer suddenly feel like stilts. Every eye in the room is on me, but only one gaze matters.

Alexei has moved closer to the stage. Close enough that I can see his eyes through the mask—pale green like winter ice. Close enough to see the way his jaw tightens when I step into the spotlight.

"We'll start the bidding at five thousand dollars," the auctioneer announces.

"Ten thousand." The voice comes from somewhere in the back.

"Fifteen!" Another voice, closer to my left.

I stand there like a mannequin, trying to look calm while my entire world tilts sideways. This is what I wanted. This is the plan. Get bought by Alexei, get close to him, find a way to destroy him from the inside.

But standing on this stage, being appraised like a piece of meat, makes me want to vomit.

"Twenty-five thousand!"

"Thirty!"

The numbers climb higher and higher. Forty thousand. Fifty. Sixty. The voices start to blur together until I can't tell who's bidding anymore. All except one.

"One hundred thousand." Alexei's voice cuts through the noise like a blade. Deep, controlled, with just enough accent to make it dangerous.

The room goes quiet.

"One hundred thousand dollars," the auctioneer repeats, sounding slightly stunned. "Do I hear—"

"Two hundred thousand."

What the hell? I search the crowd and find the source—a man in a silver mask near the bar. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and something about his posture screams… military .

Alexei turns toward him, and even from here I can feel the tension ratchet up about ten degrees. These two know each other, and they don't like each other.

"Five hundred thousand." Alexei's voice hasn't changed, but there's something underneath it now. Something that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

Silver mask laughs. Actually laughs. "One million."

Holy shit. One million dollars? For me? I knew I was decent-looking, but this is insane. Unless...

Unless they're not bidding on me at all. Unless I'm just the excuse for some kind of pissing contest between two very dangerous men.

"Three million dollars."

The words hang in the air like a bomb that hasn't exploded yet. Three million. Three million!

Alexei hasn't moved from his spot near the stage, but every other person in the room has taken a step back. Even the auctioneer looks nervous.

Silver mask is staring at Alexei now, and I can practically see him calculating whether this is worth it. After what feels like forever, he shakes his head and raises his hands in surrender.

"Three million dollars," the auctioneer says, his voice cracking slightly. "Going once... going twice..."

I look down at Alexei, and he's looking right back at me. There's something in his expression that I can't read. Satisfaction, maybe. Or possession.

"Sold."

The gavel comes down like a gunshot, and just like that, I belong to the man who killed my brother.

The irony would be funny if I wasn't about to pass out.

Alexei moves toward the stage with the kind of fluid grace that comes from absolute confidence. Or absolute danger. Probably both. When he reaches the steps, he extends his hand to help me down.

For a second, I consider refusing. Consider making a scene. Consider doing anything except taking the hand of Viktor's murderer.

But this is what I planned for. This is what I need.

I place my hand in his, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. His skin is warm, calloused, and his fingers engulf mine completely. When I step down from the stage, he doesn't let go.

"Hello, little wife," he says, and his voice is like whiskey and smoke. "We have so much to discuss."

The way he says it—like he knows exactly who I am and why I'm here—makes my blood turn to ice water.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?