Page 9 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva (Yezhov Bratva #8)

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.

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.

“Did you like the show?” she snapped, voice strained, not looking around. “Standing there like you didn’t just buy a bride over whiskey and threats.”

I leaned back against the wall, saying nothing. Only watching her as she rid herself of the extra accessories she had on.

“Go on,” she snapped. “Say something. Remind me again that I’m yours now, bought, sold, and gift-wrapped for your convenience.”

I pushed off the door slowly and deliberately, each step calculated as I prowled toward her.

Just like I expected, she didn’t back away, yet her chin rose a fraction of an inch more, as if she had the defiance between her teeth.

“Is that what you believe I see when I look at you?” I asked.

She sneered. “I don’t care what you see.”

“Liar.” I reached her, and my hand rose, slowly enough for her to slap it aside if she wished, but she didn’t. And I knew it wasn’t because she was afraid of me. She wasn’t.

She was the only woman who didn’t fear me, and to be honest, I found it amusing.

I gripped her jaw, my hand sliding over the silk-soft warmth of her cheek and relishing the shudder in her flesh that she didn’t want me to sense.

And there it was, the pulse at her neck, the slight flare of her nostrils when she inhaled, and the war behind her eyes.

She wanted to fight.

She needed to win.

But under all that fury, something darker simmered. Something curious and sinful.

“I see you. Every piece you try to hide.” I lowered my lips to hers. “I know what you’re afraid of.”

My lips clashed against hers in a searing kiss. It was rough, possessive, and ravenous.

Her hands pushed feebly against my chest, her mouth a hard line of resistance. But I didn’t let up; I deepened our kiss, my tongue prying her lips open with merciless patience.

Her breath caught.

Only once.

That was all it took.

Her fingers closed, clenched around my jacket as she leaned into my kiss. She wasn’t pushing me away; she was pulling me closer, needing more as she started to kiss me back.

The kiss slowed, changed from war to something else—something darker and a little more desperate.

Hungrier.

As if I were savoring each of her words she never got to utter.

When I broke our kiss and stepped back, her lips were redder than her wedding bouquet, her eyes stormy and shocked, but she didn’t move.

She didn’t talk, and for the first time since our engagement, she didn’t try to run away from me.

I didn’t give her the chance to catch her breath.

The kiss had opened something, not only in her, but also in me.

She tasted of fire, of rebellion, and something I wanted to destroy slowly.

I stepped closer again, and she instinctively backed away—one small, reflexive step—until the backs of her knees bumped into the bed.

Grabbing her, I pushed her down, not hard, but purposefully. I needed her to know that she wasn’t getting out of here until she realized who she belonged to and accepted things for what they were.

A vase on the side table shattered on the ground, shards scattering across the marble.

I didn’t give a shit about the damn vase.

Zoella gasped, a brief, breathless sound.

I straddled her, one hand tightening around her wrist, holding it against the plush bedding slightly above her head. Not too tight, just tight enough to feel the fight. The resistance.

She turned, not to get away. To challenge me.

I leaned in, my voice gliding against her throat like a blade. “You enjoy pretending you despise me,” I whispered, “but your body already recognizes who I am.”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Too rapidly.

I let my hand drop slowly and deliberately down the curve of her hip, down her thigh, tracing the heat that I could feel churning just beneath the skin.

I was just about to slide my fingers through her wedding gown when I noticed she’d frozen, and when I glanced at her, her eyes were wild with emotion.

It wasn’t fear or the type of silence that followed after defeat. This was something else.

Rigid. Quiet. Guarded.

I caught her wincing before she could hide it.

My hand froze.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t push me away, but I heard it, nonetheless. I hadn’t expected this.

I edged back an inch, just far enough to view her face.

Her lips parted, her eyes glassy and sharp, but filled with so much more innocence than I’d ever seen in any other woman I’d been close to.

I lowered my mouth to her jaw, barely touching her skin, and my voice dropped, quiet and cold.

“No one’s ever touched you.”

She took in a breath, her entire body tensing beneath me.

It was all the confirmation I needed.

The flush that climbed to her neck. The flash of something like shame in her eyes, though she quickly covered it with that defiant glint.

But I saw it.

My hold on her wrist relaxed, but I didn’t back off. A smile spread at the corner of my mouth. “So that’s your secret,” I whispered. “All that mouth, that attitude…and no one’s ever had you?”

Her jaw tightened. Still silent. Still proud.

God, she was annoying, and completely, breathtakingly mine.

The possessiveness burned in my chest like a live wire—hot and bright and dangerously close to snapping.

She was no longer my wife only; she was untouched, and I was the one who was going to change that.

She gazed up at me, her blue eyes wide, lips parted in a combination of defiance and something she had yet to identify. Her body was rigid beneath mine, each muscle tense with anger, with humiliation…and desire. She was trembling.