Page 8 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter seven

The First Night

M ila

The reception ends around sunset, and suddenly I'm alone with my husband in a house that feels bigger and quieter than before.

My husband. God, that's going to take some getting used to.

We walk back to the main house in comfortable silence, the kind that feels almost normal except for the way Alexei's hand rests on my lower back, possessive and warm through the silk of the wedding dress. Every step reminds me that everything has changed in the space of a few hours.

I'm Mrs. Morozov now. I have a white gold ring on my finger and a man who looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous at the same time.

"Hungry?" he asks as we enter the foyer.

I realize I barely ate anything at the reception. Too nervous, too focused on trying to read the faces of his Bratva family, too distracted by the way Alexei kept touching me—my hand, my arm, my waist—like he couldn't help himself.

"A little," I admit.

"Irina left dinner in the warming drawer. Something simple."

Simple sounds perfect. My stomach has been in knots all day, and the last thing I need is some elaborate meal I'll be too nervous to appreciate.

We head to the kitchen, where Alexei moves around with easy familiarity, pulling out plates and silverware like this is something he does every day. Which maybe it is. Maybe beneath all the expensive suits and criminal empire, he's just a man who knows his way around his own kitchen.

The thought is weirdly comforting.

"Beef bourguignon," he says, lifting the lid on a ceramic dish that smells like heaven. "Irina's specialty."

He plates the food with surprising skill, then pours two glasses of red wine that probably costs more than my old monthly rent. We sit at the kitchen island rather than the formal dining room, and somehow that makes everything feel less overwhelming.

"So," I say, taking a sip of wine that tastes like liquid silk, "how does this work?"

"How does what work?"

"This. Us. Being married."

Alexei sets down his fork and studies my face. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything, I guess." I gesture around the kitchen, the house, the life I've suddenly been dropped into. "Your expectations. The rules. What happens now."

"There are no rules," he says quietly. "Not between us."

"Come on. There have to be some ground rules. Boundaries."

"All right." He leans back in his chair, and I can see him thinking. "You can go anywhere on the estate except the basement. That's where I keep business files, and some of them are... sensitive."

"Okay. What else?"

"If you leave the grounds, you take Boris or one of the other guards with you. No exceptions."

"Am I a prisoner?"

"You're my wife. And my wife is valuable to people who might want to hurt me."

The casual way he says it makes my stomach flip. This is my life now—guards and security protocols and the constant awareness that I'm a target simply because of who I married.

"Anything else?" I ask.

"I'd prefer if you didn't try to kill me in my sleep."

The dry humor in his voice makes me laugh despite everything. "I'll do my best to restrain myself."

"Appreciated."

We eat in comfortable silence for a while, but I can feel the tension building between us. The awareness that we're married now, that tonight is our wedding night, that expectations and desires are hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

"Alexei," I say finally, "what do you expect from me? Physically, I mean."

His hand stills on his wine glass, and something dark and hungry flickers in his pale green eyes. "What do you think I expect?"

"I think you expect your wife to share your bed."

"I do." His voice is rough now, deeper. "But I won't force you. When you come to me, it will be because you want to."

"And if I never do?"

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

The certainty in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly. This man who spent three million dollars to make me his wife, who's been looking at me all day like I'm something he wants to devour—he's not going to force me. He's going to seduce me.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me want to lean closer, to see what happens when I stop fighting the attraction that's been building between us since the moment we met.

"What if I said I wanted to come to you tonight?"

His sharp intake of breath is audible in the quiet kitchen. "Then I'd say you're full of wine and wedding emotions, and I'd tell you to sleep on it."

"What if I said I wasn't?"

"Mila." My name sounds like a prayer on his lips. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

The words hang in the air between us, loaded with invitation and challenge and three glasses of wine that have made me braver than I should be. Alexei stares at me like he's trying to decide if I'm serious, if I mean it, if I'm going to change my mind in five seconds.

I don't give him time to overthink it.

I stand up and move around the island until I'm standing in front of his chair. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his green eyes. Close enough to smell that cedar and masculine scent that makes my head spin.

"Mila," he says again, but this time it's a warning.

"My husband," I say, and watch his pupils dilate. "My choice."

I lean down and kiss him.

It starts soft, tentative, just a brush of lips to see how he'll react. But the moment our mouths touch, something electric shoots through me. He tastes like wine and want and something uniquely him that makes me want more.

His hands come up to cup my face, fingers threading through my hair and sending the carefully arranged style tumbling down my back. The kiss deepens, becomes hungrier, more desperate.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Upstairs," I whisper against his lips.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He stands so fast his chair scrapes against the floor, then sweeps me up in his arms like I weigh nothing. I laugh and loop my arms around his neck, feeling dizzy and reckless and more alive than I have in years.

He carries me through the house and up the main staircase, but instead of heading toward my wing, he turns in the opposite direction. Toward what must be the master suite.

His bedroom.

The door opens to reveal a space that's purely masculine—dark wood furniture, rich fabrics in deep blues and grays, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the gardens. A massive bed dominates the center of the room, its sheets looking like they were spun for an Egyptian king.

He sets me down gently, and suddenly the reality of what we're about to do hits me. This beautiful, dangerous man is about to see me naked. Touch me. Claim me in ways that will change everything between us.

"Second thoughts?" he asks, and there's no judgment in his voice. Just patience and heat and the promise that he'll wait as long as I need.

"No," I say, and mean it. "No second thoughts."

He moves closer, his hands coming up to frame my face. "Tell me what you want, little wife."

"You," I whisper. "I want you."

The kiss this time is different—deeper, hungrier, full of promise and possession. His hands move to the back of my dress, finding the tiny buttons that hold the silk together.

"This dress," he murmurs against my lips, "has been driving me crazy all day."

"It's your mother's dress."

"Which makes seeing you in it even more perfect." His fingers work the buttons with surprising skill. "You look like you belong here. Like you were meant to be mine."

The words send heat shooting through me. I am his, legally and officially and in every way that matters. The thought should scare me. Instead, it makes me feel powerful.

The dress falls away in a whisper of silk, pooling at my feet and leaving me in nothing but the delicate lace lingerie I chose this morning. White and virginal and completely inappropriate for a woman who's about to be thoroughly claimed by her criminal husband.

Alexei's eyes darken as he takes me in, his gaze moving from my face down over my body with an appreciation that makes me feel beautiful instead of exposed.

"Perfect," he breathes. "You're perfect."

His hands skim over my bare shoulders, down my arms, across my waist. Every touch sends electricity through me, making me arch into his hands and want more.

"Your turn," I say, reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

He helps me undress him, shrugging out of his jacket and tie, letting me push his shirt off his shoulders. When his chest is bare, I have to stop and stare.

He's beautiful. All hard muscle and golden skin, with scars that tell stories I don't know yet. A tattoo covers his left shoulder—intricate Cyrillic script that probably means something important in his world.

I trace the letters with my fingertip, and he shudders under my touch.

"What does it say?" I ask.

"Family honor," he translates. "A reminder of what I'm fighting for."

"And now?"

"Now I'm fighting for you."

The simple words hit me like a physical blow. This man who barely knows me, who bought me at an auction less than twenty-four hours ago, is willing to fight for me. Willing to protect me. Willing to make me his in every way that matters.

I kiss him again, pouring everything I can't say into the connection between us. Gratitude and desire and the beginning of something that feels dangerously like trust.

He responds with heat that takes my breath away, his hands roaming over my body like he's trying to memorize every curve, every sensitive spot. When his mouth moves to my neck, I gasp and arch against him.

"So responsive," he murmurs against my throat. "I could spend hours just learning what makes you moan."

"We have hours," I point out.

"We have forever."

The words should scare me. Instead, they make me bold. I reach between us and palm him through his pants, feeling how hard he is, how much he wants me.

He groans and captures my mouth again, the kiss turning desperate and demanding. His hands move to my bra, unhooking it with practiced ease and tossing it aside.

When his mouth closes over my nipple, I cry out and thread my fingers through his hair. The sensation is overwhelming—heat and pressure and need that makes my knees weak.

"Alexei," I gasp.

"I know, baby. I know."

He lifts me easily and carries me to the bed, laying me down on sheets that feel like silk against my heated skin. In the lamplight, he looks like something out of a fantasy—all hard muscle and intense eyes and barely restrained power.

"Last chance to change your mind," he says, his voice rough with want.

"Not a chance in hell."

He smiles, slow and predatory, and my heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. This is the moment everything changes.

He strips off the rest of his clothes, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. He's magnificent—powerful and masculine and completely, utterly mine.

When he comes back to me, it's with a reverence that takes my breath away. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach, murmuring words in Russian that sound like prayers. By the time he hooks his fingers in my panties and slides them down my legs, I'm shaking with need.

"Beautiful," he whispers, settling between my thighs. "So beautiful."

The first touch of his mouth makes me arch off the bed with a cry. He's skilled and patient and absolutely relentless, building the pressure until I'm sobbing his name and begging for release.

When the climax hits, it's like being struck by lightning. I come apart completely, my body shaking with pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming.

Before I can recover, he's moving up my body, settling between my legs with the weight and heat of him pressed against me.

"Mine," he says, and there's something primitive in his voice. "Say it, Mila. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I whisper, and mean it more than I should.

When he enters me, it's with a gentleness that surprises me. Slow and careful, giving me time to adjust, to accept him. He's bigger than I expected, and the stretch is almost too much.

"Breathe," he murmurs, his forehead pressed against mine. "Just breathe, baby."

I do, and gradually the discomfort fades into something else. Something perfect and right and exactly what I need.

"Move," I whisper.

He does, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and absolutely devastating. Every thrust sends pleasure spiraling through me, building toward something bigger than before.

"Good?" he asks, and there's vulnerability in the question.

"Perfect," I gasp. "You're perfect."

The words unleash something in him. His movements become more urgent, more possessive. He braces himself above me and drives deeper, harder, hitting spots that make me see stars.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough with need. "Come on my cock, little wife. Show me you're mine."

The words push me over the edge. I come with a scream, my body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me.

He follows seconds later, my name on his lips as he spills inside me. The sensation of him claiming me so completely makes aftershocks ripple through my body.

We collapse together, breathing hard and trembling with the aftermath. He pulls me against his chest, and I can feel his heart hammering as fast as mine.

"Okay?" he asks softly.

"More than okay."

He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and I feel something shift between us. This isn't just physical anymore. This is the beginning of something real and complicated and terrifying.

"No regrets?" he asks.

I consider the question seriously. Twenty-four hours ago, I was planning to destroy this man. Now I'm naked in his bed, claimed and satisfied and falling for him despite every rational thought in my head.

"No regrets," I say, and realize I mean it.

Outside, the estate settles into quiet for the night. But inside this bedroom, wrapped in Alexei's arms with his ring on my finger and his touch still burning on my skin, I'm exactly where I belong.

Tomorrow, there will be questions and complications and the reality of what I've gotten myself into. Tonight, there's just this—the two of us and the promise of forever that tastes like wine and feels like coming home.