Page 7 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter six

The Wedding

A lexei

The Orthodox chapel on my grounds has never looked more beautiful—or intimidating.

I stand at the altar in my best black suit, watching Father Sergei arrange the ceremonial crowns and trying not to think about the fact that I'm about to marry a woman who still isn't entirely sure I didn't murder her brother.

The chapel is small, intimate, built by my grandfather in the old style. Orthodox icons line the walls, their painted eyes seeming to watch everything with divine judgment. Candles flicker in brass holders, casting dancing shadows across the worn stone floor.

It should feel sacred. Instead, it feels like I'm about to commit the most beautiful sin of my life.

"She's here," Dmitri murmurs from beside me, and I turn to see the chapel doors opening.

My breath stops in my chest.

Mila walks down the short aisle like she's floating, and for a moment I forget how to think.

The dress—my mother's wedding dress, altered to fit her perfectly—flows around her like water.

White silk and delicate lace, with long sleeves and a neckline that's modest but somehow more seductive than anything I've ever seen.

Her dark hair is pulled back in an elaborate style that Irina must have spent hours perfecting, with tiny white flowers woven through the strands. She's beautiful. She's ethereal.

She looks absolutely furious.

The contrast between her angelic appearance and the fire in her dark eyes would be funny if this wasn't the most important moment of my life. She's going through with this because she has to, not because she wants to.

But she's here. She's walking toward me in my mother's dress, and in a few minutes she'll be my wife in the eyes of God and the Bratva.

It's more than I dared to hope for three hours ago.

She reaches the altar and takes her place beside me, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something light and floral that makes me want to bury my face in her neck. When I offer her my arm, she takes it with fingers that tremble slightly.

Nerves, or rage. Hard to tell the difference.

Father Sergei begins the ceremony in Russian, his deep voice filling the small space with words that have joined couples for a thousand years. The language of my childhood, of my faith, of the promises that matter most.

I watch Mila's face as the priest speaks, see her trying to follow along even though she doesn't understand the words. Her jaw is set with determination, but there's something else in her expression. Curiosity, maybe. Or the beginning of acceptance.

The ceremony is long, filled with rituals and symbols that probably seem strange to her American sensibilities. But when Father Sergei places the first crown on her head—the crown of the bride, delicate gold with tiny pearls—she doesn't flinch.

She stands straight and proud as he crowns me too, and when he begins the dance of Isaiah, leading us three times around the altar, she follows without complaint.

She's magnificent. Even angry, even trapped, even married to a man she barely trusts… She’s just incredible.

"The rings," Father Sergei says in English, the first words of the ceremony she can understand.

I reach into my jacket and pull out the rings I had made yesterday. White gold bands, simple but elegant, engraved with both our names in Russian script. Hers fits perfectly on her slender finger, and when she slides mine onto my hand, her touch sends electricity shooting up my arm.

We're married . Legally, officially, irrevocably married.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. This woman who walked into my life twelve hours ago, this woman who came here planning to destroy me, is now my wife. My partner. My responsibility and my salvation.

My everything.

"You may kiss your bride," Father Sergei says, and the words hang in the air like a challenge.

I turn to face Mila, and she looks up at me with those dark eyes that see too much. For a moment, neither of us moves. This is it—the moment that makes it real. The moment that seals our fate.

I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones, and lean down to kiss her.

I mean for it to be gentle. Respectful. A perfunctory kiss to satisfy the ceremony and the handful of witnesses Dmitri insisted on bringing.

But the moment my lips touch hers, everything changes.

She tastes like honey and rebellion, like everything I've wanted and everything I'm afraid to lose. Her lips are soft and warm, and when I deepen the kiss slightly, she doesn't pull away.

Instead, she kisses me back.

It's tentative at first, uncertain. But then her hands come up to rest on my chest, and she leans into me. Suddenly the kiss becomes something else entirely. Something desperate and needy and absolutely inappropriate for a church.

I don't care.

I kiss her like she's air and I've been drowning. Like she's salvation and I've been lost. Like she's mine and I'm never letting her go.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips are swollen, and there's something in her eyes that wasn't there before.

Heat. Want. The same desperate hunger that's been eating me alive since I first saw her on that auction stage.

"Well," Dmitri says dryly from behind us, "that was illuminating."

The sound of his voice breaks the spell, and Mila steps back, her hand flying to her lips like she can't believe what just happened.

Neither can I, to be honest. I've kissed plenty of women, but nothing has ever felt like that. Nothing has ever made me forget where I was, who was watching, what was at stake.

"Congratulations," Father Sergei says, and there's genuine warmth in his voice. "May God bless your union with many years and many children."

Children. The word sends a shock of pure want through me. The image of Mila pregnant with my child, round and glowing and completely mine is enough to make me forget how to breathe.

From the way her eyes widen, I'm guessing she's thinking the same thing.

The next hour passes in a blur of congratulations and formal photographs and the kind of small talk that makes my teeth ache.

Dmitri brought three other families with him—allies who needed to witness the marriage to make it politically legitimate.

They're all appropriately respectful, but I can see them assessing Mila, wondering what kind of wife she'll make, whether she'll be an asset or a liability.

They have no idea what they're looking at.

Katya Petrov, Dmitri's daughter-in-law, seems particularly taken with Mila. She's only a few years older, and she's been through her own version of this—married into the Bratva for political reasons, had to learn to navigate this world of power and violence and unspoken rules.

"Your dress is beautiful," she tells Mila during a quiet moment, speaking in lightly accented English. "Very elegant."

"Thank you," Mila replies. "It was Alexei's mother's."

"Ah." Katya nods knowingly. "A family heirloom. That's significant."

"Significant how?"

"It means he sees you as more than just a political alliance. Family heirlooms are for wives who matter."

I watch Mila process this information, see the way her gaze flickers to me across the room. She's learning the language of this world, starting to understand the symbols and gestures that carry more weight than words.

Good. She'll need that knowledge to survive what's coming.

"Mrs. Morozov," Dmitri appears at my elbow, using Mila's new name with deliberate emphasis. "Perhaps we could speak privately?"

It's not really a request. Dmitri has been the closest thing to a father I've had since my parents died, but he's also the head of the most powerful Bratva family in the city. When he wants to talk, you talk.

"Of course."

We step out of the chapel and into the garden, where the late morning sun makes everything look deceptively peaceful. Dimitri doesn't speak until we're well out of earshot of the others.

"She's beautiful," he says finally.

"Yes."

"And intelligent. I can see why Viktor was so proud of her."

The mention of Viktor's name makes my chest tighten, but I keep my expression neutral. "She is."

"The question is whether she can be trusted."

"With what?"

Dmitri gives me a look that says I'm being deliberately dense. "With you. With the family. With the information she'll inevitably learn just by being your wife."

"She can be trusted."

"You sound very certain for a man who met her yesterday."

"I am certain."

"Based on what? The fact that she looks at you like she wants to put a knife in your back? Or the fact that she came to that auction specifically to get close to you?"

I turn to face him fully. "You know about that?"

"I know about everything, Alexei. Including the fact that she's been planning revenge against you for three years. Including the fact that she still doesn't know the whole truth about her brother's death."

"She'll know soon enough."

"And when she does? When she realizes that Roman Volkov was the one who pulled the trigger? What happens then?"

It's a fair question. What happens when Mila learns the truth? When she understands that her brother died because he was trying to expose Roman's operation to the FBI? When she realizes that I've been protecting her from a man who would kill her without hesitation?

Will she be grateful? Will she understand that everything I've done has been to keep her safe?

Or will she hate me even more for not telling her sooner?

"I'll handle it," I tell Dmitri.

"You'd better. Because Roman is asking questions. About her, about why you bought her, about what you're planning to do with her."

"Let him ask."

"Alexei." Dmitri's voice carries a warning. "This isn't a game. Roman has been rebuilding his operation for three years, waiting for the right moment to make his move. Your marriage to Viktor's sister might be exactly the provocation he's been looking for."

"Good. I'm tired of waiting."

"And if she gets caught in the crossfire?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. The thought of Mila hurt, Mila in danger, Mila paying the price for my war with Roman Volkov—it's enough to make me want to lock her in the strongest room in my house and never let her out.

"She won't," I say, and there's steel in my voice. "I'll make sure of it."

"The pregnancy better work fast," Dmitri says quietly. "War is coming, Alexei. And pregnant wives are harder to target than expendable girlfriends."

He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in the garden with his words echoing in my head.

Pregnancy. Children. The biological imperative that would make Mila untouchable in the eyes of our enemies.

The problem is, making her pregnant means making love to her. And making love to her means opening myself up to the kind of vulnerability I've spent thirty-eight years avoiding.

It means giving her the power to destroy me.

The irony is, she already has that power. She's had it since the moment she walked onto that auction stage. The only question is whether she'll use it.

I head back toward the chapel, where my wife is probably wondering where her husband disappeared to on their wedding day. The thought makes me smile despite everything.

My wife. Mila Morozov. It has a nice ring to it.

I find her standing by one of the tall windows, looking out at the gardens with an expression I can't read. She's still wearing the wedding dress, still crowned with those tiny white flowers, but something about her posture suggests she's already planning her next move.

"Having regrets?" I ask.

She turns to look at me, and there's something different in her eyes. Something that wasn't there this morning. "Should I be?"

"That depends on what you want out of this marriage."

"What do you want out of it?"

The question catches me off guard. Not because I don't know the answer, but because I'm not sure she's ready to hear it.

I want everything. I want her trust, her loyalty, her body in my bed every night. I want her to look at me the way she looked at me during that kiss—like I'm something worth having instead of something to be endured.

I want her to love me the way I'm already falling in love with her.

"I want you to be happy," I say instead.

"Happy." She repeats the word like it's foreign. "In a marriage I didn't choose, to a man I barely know, in a world I don't understand."

"Yes."

"That's asking a lot."

"I know."

She moves closer, and I can see gold flecks in her dark eyes. "What if I can't be? Happy, I mean."

"Then I'll spend the rest of my life trying to change that."

The words hang in the air between us, heavier than wedding vows. She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to decide whether to believe me.

"The reception," she says finally. "Dmitri mentioned there would be a reception."

"A small one. Just family."

"Your family."

"Our family now."

She nods, but there's something fragile in her expression. Like she's trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will.

"Mila," I say softly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm married to a stranger," she says. "I'm wearing a dead woman's dress. I just kissed a man who might be my enemy in front of people who definitely are. So no, I'm not all right."

"But?"

"But I'm still here."

It's not a declaration of love or trust or even acceptance. But it's something. It's a beginning.

"Yes," I agree. "You're still here."

And for now, that's enough.