Page 28 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva

But they didn’t see me.

Not the part of me that was shattering, little by little, with every second I stood beside him.

And yet beneath all the rage, all the fear, there was something else. Something worse.

It was an unwelcome heat that blistered where his hand lay against mine, where his words still echoed in my mind. Where his lips had rested, lightly, deliberately, against my forehead like a brand.

It shook me because that flame hadn’t been anger; it had been something darker.

Something fascinating.

I shoved it down so hard I could feel the pain in my chest because I knew he didn’t deserve this part of me.

He’d taken everything else.

But not this.

Not desire.

Not control.

Not me.

And yet, as we walked down from the altar to greet our guests and so he could introduce me to whoever he cared to introduce the latest Mrs. Yezhov to, all I could think was about our wedding night and what he planned to do with me.

Chapter 8 – Matvey

The reception was a haze of crystal and cameras, plastic smiles and the hands of strangers. Everyone had their eyes on us, but only one person had my full attention, and it was Zoella.

My wife.

I hadn’t gotten used to the word yet, but I was pretty sure I would adapt to it very soon.

She looked more beautiful today than I’d ever seen her. Not even the tiny crusts of diamonds on her dress or the oval-shaped rock glistening on her finger could compare to her.

And holy hell did I love the way she stood beside me like she’d come to terms with the fact that she belonged by my side. Still, it was a struggle to take my eyes off her.

The white silk wedding dress hugged her figure like temptation sculpted by a tailor. Her expression was serene, her posture flawless, but the tension seeped from her in waves.

Her fingers shook slightly as she raised her glass of champagne. Enough for anyone but me to ignore. But I noticed. I felt it.

Her smile never touched her eyes, and yet, she was breathtaking.

Every time a guest leaned in too close—some Bratva associate offering shallow blessings and pleasantries—her shoulders would twitch, ever so faintly, before she could make herself be still.

When Rurik put a heavy hand on her shoulder and said something I didn’t catch, her spine went rigid as a knife.

She was all sharp edges tonight.

Danger masquerading as grace, and soon, all of it would be mine.

Not the performance.

Not the dress.

The fire.

I remained silent during the toast. I didn’t have to. Blake went first and gave a stiff, uncomfortable toast that sounded like it’d been composed under duress. He said the word “union” three times and gazed at his glass more than he gazed at us.