Page 5 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter five

The Figurines

M ila

I wake up to sunlight streaming through windows the size of movie screens and the sound of birds chirping like we're in some kind of Disney movie.

For about three seconds, I forget where I am. The bed is so comfortable it's like sleeping on a cloud, and the sheets are probably thread counts I can't even pronounce. Then reality crashes back like a freight train.

I'm in Alexei Morozov's house. I'm going to marry him today. And I still don't know if he killed my brother.

Perfect.

I roll over and check the antique clock on the nightstand. Seven-thirty. Early, but I've never been good at sleeping in, especially when my brain is spinning like a hamster wheel.

The dress I wore to the auction is draped over a chair, but when I check the walk-in closet, I find it's been stocked with enough clothes to outfit a small army. Jeans, sweaters, dresses, even pajamas—all in my exact size.

Creepy, but…practical.

I pull on jeans and a soft gray sweater, then pad barefoot to the bathroom to splash water on my face and try to make my hair look less like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

The face in the mirror looks pale and worried, which pretty much sums up how I feel. Today, I'm supposed to marry a man I barely know, in a religion I don't practice, in front of people who probably think I'm nothing more than an expensive toy.

And the worst part? Part of me is actually looking forward to it.

Not the wedding itself—that's going to be a nightmare. But spending more time with Alexei, trying to figure out what makes him tick, getting closer to the truth about Viktor... that's what I came here for.

The fact that he makes my pulse race and my knees go weak is just an unfortunate side effect.

I need coffee. Coffee and information, preferably in that order.

The door to my suite isn't locked, which is either a good sign or a trap. I step into the hallway and listen for sounds of life. Voices drift up from somewhere downstairs, along with the smell of bacon and coffee that makes my stomach growl.

The house looks different in daylight. Less like a fortress, more like a palace. Everything is rich and warm and expensive—oil paintings that probably belong in museums, furniture that looks like it's been passed down through generations, fresh flowers in crystal vases on every surface.

It's beautiful. It's also intimidating as hell.

I follow the smell of coffee down the main staircase and through a maze of hallways until I find what has to be the kitchen. It's huge, all gleaming marble and stainless steel, with windows that look out over gardens that probably require a full-time staff to maintain.

Irina is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot that smells like heaven. She looks up when I walk in and gives me a smile that seems genuinely warm.

"Good morning, Mrs. Morozov. Did you sleep well?"

Mrs. Morozov. I'm going to have to get used to that.

"Like a rock, thanks. Is there coffee?"

"Of course." She gestures toward a machine that looks like it could launch rockets. "Help yourself. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes."

I pour myself a cup of coffee that tastes like it costs more per pound than I used to make per hour, then lean against the counter and watch Irina work. She moves around the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who's been doing this for decades.

"How long have you worked for Alexei?" I ask.

"Thirty-two years," she says without looking up from her stirring. "I started when his father was still alive. Alexei was just a boy then."

A boy. It's hard to imagine Alexei as anything other than the controlled, dangerous man I met last night. But everyone starts somewhere, right?

"What was he like? As a kid, I mean."

Irina's smile softens. "Serious. Always asking questions, always trying to understand how things worked. He used to follow his father around like a shadow, wanting to learn everything about the business."

"The... family business?"

"All aspects of it." She gives me a look that says she knows exactly what I'm asking. "But he was kind, too. Gentle with animals, protective of anyone smaller than him. Once he brought home a stray dog with a broken leg and insisted we nurse it back to health."

The image of a young Alexei caring for an injured dog doesn't match the man who bought me at an auction, but people change. Circumstances change them.

"Where is he now?" I ask.

"In his study. He's always up early." Irina turns off the stove and starts plating eggs and bacon. "You should eat something. Today will be... eventful."

Eventful. That's one way to put it.

I'm halfway through breakfast when curiosity gets the better of me. "Irina? Would it be okay if I looked around the house? I mean, it's going to be my home now, right?"

She pauses in her cleaning, and I can see her weighing the request. Probably wondering if I'm planning to case the joint for an escape route.

Which, to be fair, I kind of am.

"Of course," she says finally. "Though perhaps you should avoid Mr. Morozov's private study. He... values his privacy."

"Noted."

I finish my coffee and head back into the maze of hallways.

The house is even bigger than I thought—room after room of beautiful furniture and priceless art.

A formal dining room that could seat twenty.

A library with books in at least four different languages.

A conservatory filled with plants that probably cost more than my car.

It's incredible. It's also clearly designed to impress and intimidate.

I'm admiring a painting that looks suspiciously like a real Monet when I hear voices coming from behind a closed door. Men's voices, speaking in rapid Russian.

I shouldn't eavesdrop. I should mind my own business and continue my tour like a good little wife.

Instead, I press my ear to the door.

I can't understand most of what they're saying, but I catch a few words. Viktor's name. Something about Roman. And what sounds like wedding preparations.

The voices get louder, like they're arguing, and I hear footsteps approaching the door. I jump back and pretend to be studying another painting, but my heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised it's not audible.

The door opens, and a man I don't recognize emerges. He's shorter than Alexei, stockier, with graying hair and the kind of face that's seen too much violence. He nods politely when he sees me, but his eyes are cold and assessing.

"Mrs. Morozov," he says in accented English. "Congratulations on your marriage."

"Thank you," I manage.

He disappears down the hallway, leaving me standing there feeling like I've just been evaluated and found wanting.

"Dmitri doesn't warm up quickly to new people."

I spin around to find Alexei leaning in the doorway of what must be his study. He's changed from last night's suit into dark jeans and a black sweater that makes his shoulders look even broader. His hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it.

He looks good. Annoyingly good.

"Dmitri?"

"My... business partner. He's helping with the wedding arrangements."

Right. The wedding. I'd almost forgotten about that particular nightmare.

"How thoughtful of him."

Alexei steps fully into the hallway and closes the study door behind him. But not before I catch a glimpse of what's inside—bookshelves, a massive desk, and in the corner, what looks like a workshop of some kind.

"Exploring your new home?" he asks.

"Irina said I could look around. As long as I avoided your study."

"Smart woman."

"What's in there that's so secret?"

His jaw tightens slightly. "Private things."

"What kind of private things?"

"The kind that are private."

Helpful. I try a different approach.

"The man who just left—Dmitri—he seemed... intense."

"Dmitri is my father's oldest friend. He helped raise me after my parents died."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd lost your parents."

Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or old grief. "Car accident when I was sixteen. Dmitri stepped in, made sure I could take over the family business when I was ready."

"That was kind of him."

"Kindness had nothing to do with it. It was practical. The Morozov name carries weight in our world. Dmitri needed that weight to maintain his own position."

The casual way he talks about it makes my chest ache. No wonder he seems so controlled, so self-contained. He's been running a criminal empire since he was barely out of high school.

"What about other family? Aunts, uncles, cousins?"

"Some. Scattered around the world. We're not exactly the type for family reunions."

I'm about to ask another question when he moves closer, close enough that I can smell that cedar and masculine scent that makes my brain go fuzzy.

"Enough about my family," he says. "What would you like to see next?"

I should say the gardens, or the library, or literally anywhere that doesn't involve being alone with him in a confined space. Instead, I hear myself saying, "Your study."

His eyebrows rise. "I thought I made it clear that was off-limits."

"You did. I'm curious anyway."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"Good thing I'm not a cat."

We stare at each other for a long moment, and I can see him weighing his options. Tell me no and deal with my inevitable pushback, or show me whatever he's hiding and hope I don't freak out.

"Fine," he says finally. "But don't touch anything."

He opens the study door and steps aside to let me in first. The room is beautiful—all dark wood and leather and the kind of masculine elegance that probably costs a fortune to achieve.

Books line the walls, most of them in Russian or what looks like German.

A fire crackles in the fireplace, and the whole space smells like wood smoke and old paper.

But what catches my attention is the corner workshop I glimpsed earlier. There's a small table covered with wood shavings, carving tools arranged with military precision, and...

"Oh my God."