Page 1 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva (Yezhov Bratva #8)

Five Months Ago

The mansion still reeked of celebration.

The scent of champagne clung to the silk rugs, laughter echoed faintly through the walls, and somewhere in the ballroom, someone was still shouting a toast to my brother’s name.

But I couldn’t breathe in there.

The noise scratched at the inside of my skull, too loud, too forced.

So I slipped away, leaving behind the glitter and heat of the wedding feast and moving through the quiet, empty hallways of Rurik’s estate.

My footsteps were soft against the marble, muffled by the thick carpets and expensive silence.

My brother Rurik had gotten married to one of the Carters, Yulia, earlier today, and the mansion was still bustling with celebration.

I didn’t get it. I was bored out of my mind from the same discussion about love and building a family, but somehow my family still had the energy to spend on post-wedding parties and whatever they called the clinking of glasses and snacking on the leftover wedding cake.

Leaning on the wall behind me, I shook my head as more laughter seeped into the hallway. I honestly wondered if they were going to get tired so we could have dinner and retire to our rooms.

I needed a smoke, or I’d lose my fucking mind.

Fortunately, the laughter died out within minutes, and the hallway lay long and silent in front of me, lighted only by the muted flames of old-style sconces. I drew my hand over my face, the vodka buzz numbing the pain of the night, when I caught motion in my peripheral vision.

Yulia.

She stood stock-still outside the bedroom she now shared with Rurik—or was meant to, still in her ivory wedding gown.

Her fists were clenched at her hips, fingers twisted so hard the skin went white.

Her wavy brunette hair was pulled back, but a few loose strands had escaped, curling around her face in gentle waves that didn’t suit the set of her jaw or the bland, almost icy expression in her eyes.

I opened my mouth to congratulate her on becoming a Yezhov, but a sound cut through, and I trailed off.

It was a soft moan.

Then laughter, followed by the sound of skin clapping against each other.

The door was open just enough to let the sounds leak through—laughter, the rhythmic creak of a bed, and Rurik’s groans mixing with feminine moans.

I froze, something cold slithering in my guts.

Yulia didn’t flinch.

She simply gazed at the door as if it were a painting that she had learned and memorized to despise.

“Yulia,” I whispered, low and gentle as if anything louder could shatter her. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes watered, her lips trembling with an emotion that was worse than pain. Betrayal. The sadness on her face made my chest tighten, and my heart began to race like it would explode.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It was their wedding night. Rurik could’ve at least waited another day or taken his whore out if he wanted to fuck a woman that wasn’t his wife so badly.

Rurik and Yulia’s marriage was arranged for the sake of an alliance. Arranged marriages were everything in the mafia, and Rurik, as much as he hated the idea of it, couldn’t oppose.

Still, he was an asshole for pulling this shitty stunt on his wife. She was also forced into this.

“Yulia,” I whispered again, watching her for a reaction.

She turned slowly.

Her green eyes met mine, dry but bloodshot, and the corner of her mouth twisted into something that was not a smile. Not quite. The sort of face people make when they’ve already screamed themselves hoarse.

She shook her head and her lips curled in a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “I’m…okay.”

She wasn’t okay at all. She looked so fragile, like she could shatter any minute and erupt into an ocean of tears.

I could see through the tough mask. Her mother must’ve prepared her for this.

I’d heard a lot of women in the mafia telling their daughters that men in our world could have as many women as they wanted, and it was their duty as wives to not ask any questions and provide him with a son to continue the legacy.

That was some bullshit if you asked me.

We weren’t in the sixties, and I had no respect for men who had no freaking self-control, though I admit I would respect them more depending on how far they could swing a knife and bury it in a man’s heart.

“Yulia, I—”

“Don’t!” she cut in sharply, her eyes pleading. “Don’t say it.”

I nodded, unsure of what else to do.

She took one last look at the door, her lips curving into a bittersweet smile, then she walked past me without saying a word. No apology, not even a backward glance, and she left only the scent of peonies and the lingering echo of every word she wanted to say but couldn’t.

I stood there, hearing the noises behind the door, sickness churning in my stomach like rot.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, I hated my brother.

***

Dinner had long been a performance in my family with all the silver forks, pointed smiles, and banter layered like fine linen.

By the time I arrived, they were midway through the meal.

Crystal glasses sparkled under the obscene chandelier light overhead. Laughter echoed the length of the table like it was well rehearsed, and servants hovered like shadows behind chairs, topping up wine, clearing away empty dishes, and serving more food.

It was a typical Yezhov family gathering.

I slipped into my seat, greeting no one specifically, although my entrance earned me a few looks.

Rurik didn’t even look up. He was too busy charming the older relatives with stories about men he’d killed, his hand resting casually on Yulia’s shoulder as if he hadn’t just slept with another woman a few hours earlier.

Yulia smiled, pretending the man sitting next to her hadn’t just shattered her heart.

I wondered if anyone else at the table noticed the way her shoulders and jaw tensed each time she had to fake a smile while she was broken inside.

My fists clenched in annoyance, but it wasn’t my place to meddle in their business, so I glanced to the end of the table to shift my focus onto something less annoying, although I doubted I could find anything else worth my attention.

Surprisingly, something else caught my interest—or someone.

Zoella.

She was sitting on the other side of the table, not exactly hidden, but not in the middle either. She was Yulia’s little sister, and, in my opinion, far more beautiful.

She wore a pale purple dress, something simple and light, with thin sleeves that fell just above her elbows. Her brunette hair was parted down the middle, drawn back by a black ribbon that made her appear almost innocent.

But there was something about her that wasn’t quite simple, and I struggled to wrap my head around it. Although there were some resemblances between her and her sister, her aura was quite different.

It was not how she sat, erect, composed, but not stiff, but the tilt of her chin, the quiet defiance of not bowing to anyone in a room full of individuals who demanded obedience.

She did not speak much, merely nodding now and then, making gentle comments when asked to, and maintaining eye contact as if she feared no one. But every now and then, someone would draw her into the conversation, and when she spoke, she sounded almost too clever for someone so young.

Her blue eyes flickered in my direction a couple of times, and although she maintained her smile, I couldn’t help but notice the way she avoided actually looking at me.

Tonight, it was my distant cousin, Mila, who pulled her in for a discussion.

“Zoella,” Mila drawled, swirling wine in her glass. “Say, if you had the option, which would you choose? A man who has too much power or one who has too much money?”

Half of the people at the table rolled their eyes at Mila’s question. She just had it in her to be a menace and ask questions that would get on everyone’s last nerves.

Rurik sighed. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough alcohol for one day?”

“No amount of alcohol is ever too much for a day,” Mila replied, barely glancing over the table to look at him.

Rurik sighed and shook his head. “Crazy woman.”

Mila raised her glass. “The madness runs in the family.”

Everyone at the table laughed. Everyone except me and Zoella.

Zoella’s lip curled as she cleared her throat. “I would rather not have any.”

That answer caught everyone’s attention instantly. All heads turned in her direction, their brows slightly lifted in surprise.

My uncle had the biggest frown on his face, and I could imagine the thoughts running through his head. He believed women lived for one purpose: to serve men and become breeding machines.

Popping her elbow on the table, Mila rested her head on her hand and shrugged. “That might be the case, but you have to choose.”

“There’s no such thing as too much money or too much power. If I had to pick,” Zoella started, her voice level and forceful, “I’d pick the one who doesn’t anticipate being worshipped for either.”

The room went silent.

Mila huffed and rolled her eyes. “All men want to be worshipped for either their money or power.”

“Not all men,” Zoella said calmly, slicing into the steak in front of her. She looked so elegant doing it. “Most men would, but a real man’s value doesn’t depend on how much he has or who he can intimidate with it.”

I was watching her carefully, the way she bent her fingers around the handle of her glass of water, the way she didn’t flinch beneath the abrupt silence, didn’t apologize for her response.

There was a bite in her. It was quiet, deliberate.

I couldn’t help staring.

I’d seen her around previously, naturally, once before Rurik and Yulia’s wedding. She always had the same composure, smiling where she was supposed to, courteous but watchful. Like a person who’d gone long enough being overlooked that she understood its value despite being so young.

A slight smile creased Mila’s brow. “What makes a real man?”

“His morals,” she answered as she dug her fork into the steak. “Morals are what make a real man. Any fool can become rich or kill his way to the top.”

“This is why women shouldn’t study so much,” Rurik said with a shake of his head.

Zoella scoffed, slowly chewing on her meat and sipping from the glass of water in front of her before glancing at my brother. “Common sense can’t be acquired through studying.”

Riruk’s eyes widened in rage. “You might want to watch that tongue of yours, Zoe.”

Zoella gasped, and then she flashed an innocent smile at Riruk. “Forgive me, brother-in-law. I wasn’t insulting you. I was just simply stating that some things do not need to be studied. For example, a decent man wouldn’t cheat on his wife on their wedding night. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

Riruk’s jaw clenched. He picked up a glass of wine from the table and finished it in one gulp while Yulia lowered her gaze to the table, probably too ashamed because she knew the truth.

The air was thick with tension, but Zoella didn’t back down. She didn’t glance away or let the disapproving look on Rurik’s face frighten her.

I bit back a smile, perplexed at the way her brain worked.

She wasn’t na?ve for someone who’d grown up sheltered and with only one purpose, which was to be used as a pawn for future alliances. She was smart enough to see through the performance, brave enough to keep playing.

Then, like she’d sensed my stare burning into her for the last hour, she looked up. And for the first time, our eyes met.

Something shifted.

Her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t falter or flinch. She looked right at me, not like the others did. There was no fear in her eyes, but there was something else. A question, maybe. Or a challenge.

It was brief. Seconds.

But it felt like a match struck in a room soaked in gasoline.

She looked away first. Went right back to whatever harmless small talk her end of the table was drowning in. But I couldn’t. I stayed frozen, staring at the empty space she’d left behind.

There was something in her—something I hadn’t expected. A quiet kind of defiance that didn’t need to raise its voice. A sweetness, yes, but sharpened to a point.

I drained the last of my wine and forced myself to look away, pretending I didn’t feel that first quiet pull between us.

And then there was a burning inside me that I knew would torment me for a long time.