Page 29 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva

Lillian’s toast was softer, infused with rehearsed sweetness and the same mute desperation any stepmother who was finally happy to rid herself of her stepdaughter would have.

No one mentioned Yulia, and I wondered if that was a good or bad thing.

Zoella’s friends walked over to us, Marielle leading the pack as they approached. Her eyes carried as much defiance as Zoella’s, and her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes either.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her gaze pinned on Zoella. She didn’t even spare me a glance or acknowledge my existence.

Zoella nodded. “Just tired.”

“You should get some rest, Z.”

“I will.”

Marielle finally glanced at me. “Take care of her, please.”

I wanted to, but I couldn’t deny how impressed I was by Marielle’s boldness and loyalty. She’d looked me in the eyes without a single ounce of fear and asked me for a favor.

It was interesting. “She’s my wife. It’s my duty to care for her.”

Marielle looked like she would say more but bit back her words, bobbed her head, and walked away. The other friends offered their congratulations before sauntering along with Marielle.

Zoella did a good job at playing the part—the good daughter, the beautiful wife, the prize.

But I saw the clenching of her jaw. The rage that lay beneath her skin. The spark in her eyes that told me she dared me to try to break her.

Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t. It was truly up to her to decide.

Damien raised the final toast, “To the Carter and Yezhov families,” he said, raising his glass. “May our alliance last forever.”

The glasses clinked, and thunderous applause rippled through the room.

I slowly turned to her, determined, and held out my hand.

She waited for an instant, then she put hers in mine the same way she did at the altar.

I wrapped my fingers around hers in a gentle grasp to anyone who watched—but clear to her.

It said: Playtime’s over.

And when I guided her to the waiting car outside, her heels tapping softly on the polished marble, I did not need to speak for her to hear exactly what came next.

She was mine now.

***

The door closed with a sharp click behind us.

The room was silent, save for the soft swish of her dress as she moved—paced, actually—toward the center.

I didn’t utter a word.

Just leaned against the door, watching her.

She stood in front of me, her back to me, breathing shallowly, her fists clenched at her sides. And then, with a quick, jerking movement, she tore the veil from her head and threw it to the ground.

The fragile pearls lay strewn over the marble. Then she pulled the earrings from her lobes with shaky hands, and lastly the necklace, the thick, sparkling bulk of it snagging briefly before she tore herself free of it as though it would burn through her skin if she kept it on for longer.

Her chest heaved up and down too fast.