Page 4 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter four

The Estate

A lexei

The blue suite door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a moment, letting myself breathe.

Having Mila in my home, seeing her surrounded by my things, watching her try to hide her reaction to my touch—it's affecting me more than I expected. More than I can afford.

I've been planning this moment for three years, ever since I made that promise to Viktor. But nothing could have prepared me for the reality of her. The way she smells like vanilla and defiance. The way her dark eyes flash when she's angry. The way her breath catches when I get too close.

She's going to destroy me, and I'm going to let her.

But first, I need to make sure she's safe. Which means showing her exactly what kind of fortress she's walked into.

I push off from the door and head downstairs to my study. Irina is waiting for me in the hallway, her hands folded in front of her like she's been standing there for hours.

"The suite is acceptable?" she asks in Russian.

"Perfect, as always." I switch to English out of habit—Mila will need to learn Russian eventually, but for now, I don't want her feeling more isolated than necessary. "How long until dinner?"

"Forty minutes. I've prepared borscht and beef stroganoff. Comfort food."

Smart woman. Mila's world has been turned upside down tonight. The last thing she needs is some elaborate seven-course meal that will make her feel even more out of place.

"And the other preparations?"

Irina's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. "The chapel is ready for tomorrow morning. Father Sergei will arrive at nine."

Tomorrow. Christ, tomorrow I'm going to marry Viktor's sister in front of God and my family, and she's going to hate every second of it.

But it's necessary. The auction was just the beginning—a legal transaction that gives me possession. The Orthodox ceremony will make her my wife in the eyes of the church and the Bratva. After that, no one will be able to question my right to protect her.

"Good. What about security?"

"Boris has tripled the perimeter guards. No one gets on or off the property without your approval."

I nod, satisfied. Roman Volkov is many things, but he's not stupid. He'll know that Mila is here within twenty-four hours, and he'll start making plans to take her from me.

He can try.

"Sir?" Irina's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Should I... should I explain the rules to her?"

Right. Mila is going to need to understand how things work here. What she can and can't do, where she can and can't go. The boundaries that will keep her safe and sane while she adjusts to her new life.

"I'll handle that," I tell Irina. "But make sure she knows she can come to you with questions. About anything."

Irina nods and disappears toward the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hallway. I head for my study, the one room in this house that's completely mine. The one place where I can let my guard down and just... be.

The heavy oak door swings shut behind me, and I'm surrounded by the familiar scents of leather and wood polish.

This room hasn't changed since my father's time—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk that's seen three generations of Morozov business, a fireplace that's burned every night for forty years.

And in the corner, my workshop.

I move toward the small table where my current project waits. Viktor's face, half-emerged from a block of birch wood. I've carved it so many times I could do it with my eyes closed—the sharp cheekbones, the intelligent eyes, the mouth that was always ready with a joke or a challenge.

The mouth that said take care of Mila with his last breath.

I pick up my knife and start working, letting the familiar rhythm calm my nerves. Slice, turn, slice again. Each cut takes away a little more of the guilt, a little more of the what-ifs that keep me awake at night.

What if I'd been faster? What if I'd seen Roman's betrayal coming? What if I'd convinced Viktor to run instead of staying to fight?

The knife slips, and I curse as it bites into my thumb. Blood wells up, bright red against the pale wood. I stick my thumb in my mouth and taste copper and regret.

This is why I can't afford to be distracted. Why I can't let Mila's presence in my house cloud my judgment. She's here for a reason—revenge—and until she understands the truth about Viktor's death, she's going to be looking for ways to hurt me.

The smart thing would be to keep my distance. Show her the estate, explain the rules, and then lock myself in this study until she's ready to hear the truth.

But when has smart ever been my strong suit?

A soft knock on the door interrupts my brooding. "Come in."

It's Boris, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. My head of security is many things—loyal, efficient, absolutely lethal when necessary—but he's never been comfortable with the more... domestic aspects of my life.

"The perimeter is secure," he reports in his heavily accented English. "Motion sensors are active, cameras are recording. If anyone comes within a hundred yards of the house, we'll know."

"Good. And our guest?"

"Still in her rooms. Irina brought her dinner twenty minutes ago."

I glance at the clock on my desk. Eight-thirty. I told Mila dinner would be ready in an hour, but apparently Irina decided to take it to her instead of making her come downstairs.

Smart woman. Give Mila some time to process, some space to plan, before the real negotiations begin.

"Boris," I say carefully, "what do you know about Roman Volkov's current operations?"

Boris's expression darkens. He was there the night Viktor died, took a bullet in the leg trying to cover our retreat. He has as much reason to hate Roman as I do.

"He's been quiet since the incident three years ago. Laying low, rebuilding his network. But my sources say he's been asking questions lately."

"What kind of questions?"

"About you. About the girl. About whether you're planning to use her for something."

Of course he is. Roman's not stupid—he knows that Viktor had a sister, knows that she'd be valuable leverage in the right hands. What he doesn't know is that she came to me willingly, or that she's been planning this for three years.

What he definitely doesn't know is that I'd burn the world down before I let him touch her.

"Double the guards," I tell Boris. "And put a detail on her parents. Roman might try to use them to get to her."

Boris nods and heads for the door, then stops and turns back.

"Sir? The girl... she knows what she's walking into?"

It's a fair question. Boris has been with me for fifteen years, has seen what this life does to the women who get caught up in it. The fear, the isolation, the constant danger.

"She thinks she does," I say.

"And when she realizes she doesn't?"

That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?

What happens when Mila realizes that marrying me means accepting a life of guards and guns and looking over her shoulder every time she leaves the house?

What happens when she understands that loving me—if she ever does—means painting a target on her back?

What happens when she figures out that the safest place for her is right here, with me, forever?

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," I tell Boris.

He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and leaves me alone with my carving and my doubts.

I work for another hour, losing myself in the familiar motions.

Viktor's face emerges from the wood slowly, taking shape under my hands.

But tonight, something's different. Tonight, I find myself thinking about the way Mila's eyes flash when she's angry, the way her mouth curves when she's trying not to smile.

Tonight, for the first time in three years, I'm carving something other than guilt.

When I finally look up, it's almost ten o'clock. Time to check on my wife.

The thought sends heat straight through me. Wife . Tomorrow it will be official, but tonight she's still just a woman I bought at an auction. A woman who thinks I killed her brother. A woman who's probably planning twelve different ways to murder me in my sleep.

A woman I want more than I've wanted anything in my entire life.

I set down my knife and head upstairs, my footsteps silent on the thick carpet. The blue suite is at the end of the hall, past the guest rooms and the library and the small sitting area where my mother used to take her tea.

The door is closed, but there's light coming from underneath. She's still awake.

I raise my hand to knock, then stop. What am I going to say? How are you settling in to your new prison? Comfortable with the idea that you belong to me now? Ready to hear about how your brother died trying to save you?

Instead, I press my ear to the door and listen.

Silence. Then, soft footsteps moving across the room. The sound of a window opening.

Shit.

I don't bother knocking. I turn the handle and step into the room, expecting to find her halfway out the window with sheets tied together like some kind of movie escape scene.

Instead, I find her sitting in the window seat, still in that black dress from the auction, looking out at the gardens below. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and in the moonlight streaming through the glass, she looks like something out of a fairy tale.

A very dangerous, very beautiful fairy tale.

"Planning your escape route?" I ask.

She doesn't even jump. Just turns to look at me with those intelligent dark eyes.

"Twenty-foot drop to a stone patio," she says calmly. "Motion sensors in the gardens. Armed guards patrolling the perimeter. Not exactly escape-friendly."

"No," I agree. "It's not."

I step into the room and close the door behind me. The blue suite really is beautiful—Irina outdid herself with the decorating. Soft blues and creams, antique furniture that's been in my family for generations, fresh flowers on every surface.

It looks like a room for a princess. Or a very pampered prisoner.

"The food was good," Mila says, nodding toward the empty tray on the small table. "Your Irina is an excellent cook."

"She'll be pleased to hear that."

We stare at each other across the room, and I can feel the tension crackling between us like electricity. She's wary, curious, angry, attracted—all at the same time. It's written in every line of her body, every breath she takes.

"So," she says finally. "What happens now?"

"Now you get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

"The wedding."

"The wedding."

She turns back to the window, and I can see her reflection in the glass. There's something vulnerable in her expression, something that makes me want to cross the room and pull her into my arms.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" she asks quietly.

"No," I say, because lying to her won't help anyone. "You don't."

"And after? After we're officially married and I'm officially yours? What then?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I'm not sure either of us is ready for.

"Then we figure out how to live with each other," I say finally.

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Live with each other. Right. The man who bought me and the woman who wants to kill him. That should work out great."

"Mila." I take a step toward her, then stop when she tenses. "I know this isn't what you planned. I know this isn't the life you wanted. But I meant what I said in the car—if you're looking for Viktor's killer, I'm not your enemy."

"Then who is?"

"Roman Volkov. And tomorrow, after the ceremony, I'll start showing you why."

She turns to face me fully, and the moonlight catches the tears she's trying not to shed.

"Why should I believe you?"

It's a fair question. I'm asking her to trust the man who dragged her away from everything she knew, who's planning to marry her whether she wants it or not, who's keeping her prisoner in a house that's more fortress than home.

But I'm also the man who's going to keep her alive. The man who's going to help her find the truth about Viktor. The man who's going to love her whether she wants it or not.

"Because," I say, crossing the room slowly until I'm standing in front of her, "I made a promise to your brother. And I always keep my promises."

I reach out and touch her cheek, and this time she doesn't pull away. Her skin is soft and warm, and when she closes her eyes and leans into my touch just slightly, something in my chest clenches tight.

"Get some sleep, little wife," I whisper. "Tomorrow everything changes."

I force myself to step back, to walk away from her, to leave her alone in her beautiful prison.

But as I close the door behind me, I can't shake the feeling that she's not the only one who's trapped here.

Because every time I look at her, every time I see the way she tilts her head when she's thinking or the way her eyes flash when she's angry, I fall a little deeper into something I don't understand.

Something that feels dangerously like instant love.