Page 10 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

“Whoa, Ari. You look really good,” Eleanor commented, standing beside me as we both looked at my reflection in the mirror.

And she was right. I did look good.

My wedding day arrived sooner than I ever expected or dreamed.

Call me a romantic, but I had always hoped to marry someone I loved.

The little girl in me always dreamed of a moment like this—sitting in front of a vanity mirror and barely recognizing myself, all dressed in the silk, ivory Carolina Herrera gown Eleanor chose for me, with makeup on, and lips painted a dark, bloody red.

I was beautiful, truly, but I still felt the hollowness in my heart. And even Eleanor’s soft gaze on me through her hazel eyes in the mirror couldn’t do anything about it. This was an unavoidable fate.

I knew I had complained about how much I hated this, but I still couldn’t get over how hurt I felt now.

And neither could the memory of that kiss that man had burned into my mind disappear.

I could still recall the heat I felt all over my body as he kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle or cute. It was passionate, as if he wanted to consume me.

I could feel his rage through it, and yet, instead of pushing him away, I indulged him—craving the feelings he ignited in me, even.

I was lost in the passion I felt from that kiss, until I felt his burning hands on my breasts, and then I remembered that I was just a lousy virgin who didn’t mind giving it to a man I hated with my entire being, simply because of how good he made me feel.

But I was such a fool, too.

After the kiss, he pretended like nothing had happened. My face was flushed with embarrassment as the agent unlocked the door, while Rafael was composed, unshaken.

I was the fool for acting like there was anything more to that kiss than there was. I read too much into it. I thought…I thought he felt that magnetizing pull, too.

But he just saw me as any other woman he could have his way with.

The makeup artist fluffed my ginger hair, adding finishing touches and accessories to the braids she had made.

“I can’t believe you’re actually getting married. And before me, too,” Eleanor joked with a pout.

She had been with me through everything—from choosing my dress to this very moment—as she stood in a backless indigo gown that highlighted her sun-kissed skin. She had already done her makeup and styled her brunette hair just moments before I did.

And I envied the fact that, unlike Lara and me, she wasn’t tangled with the Bratva in any way.

“Trust me,” I glanced her way briefly, “you don’t want this.”

The smile on her face faded at my words, and it seemed like she wanted to comfort me somehow, but she simply sighed and continued helping the makeup artist add some blush to my face before heading back to settle in the recliner across from my room at Father’s mansion, where we currently were.

The makeup artist’s touch was gentle, reminding me of my mother.

I didn’t have many memories of her, seeing as she died whilst I was a child, at about six.

And though I didn’t remember much, I knew she was a soft and gentle soul.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I could feel her touch, and it always filled me with warmth.

A warmth I so desperately needed, growing the longer I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of her. There were hardly any pictures of her at Father’s mansion because he made sure to destroy every last one. I never even got the chance to mourn her.

And now I was getting married by force, with no one by my side to tell me I had a choice. Eleanor did her best, but it just wasn’t enough.

Alice never cared. She only saw herself as an accessory anyway.

Jacob, on the other hand, hadn’t been too thrilled to hear his sister was marrying one of the Bratva men, but he knew better than to cross them. We all knew better than that.

A knock on the door echoed through the room just as the stylist zipped up my heels. Eleanor, who had been busy typing away at her phone, stood up cautiously to answer the door.

Agnes peeked into the room, her gaze shy as she muttered something into Eleanor’s ear, then Eleanor turned to look at me, confusion on her face.

“She says someone claiming to be your half-brother is here,” Eleanor told me, scratching her head, and her confusion mirrored mine perfectly.

My half-brother? The only brother I had ever known was Jacob, and because of his busy schedule, he had already told me he would be flying in late for my wedding.

I had no idea what to say or think, so I shrugged. “Let him in, I guess.”

Eleanor whispered my reply to the staff, and after waiting in anticipation for whoever was playing a silly trick on me on my wedding day, the door swung open wider, revealing a man.

He was tall and lean with muscles, sporting olive skin partly covered by a black hoodie and ripped jeans. He looked a few years younger than me—probably twenty or even younger. Unlike me, his hair was dark brown, a bit like how Father’s was at that age.

But that was it. He looked nothing like Father, and nothing like my mother either, because I got my ginger hair and features from her.

“Hi, sis.” The man waved, a flashy grin on his face.

The stylist and makeup artist working on me exchanged a glance. It was a look that showed they sensed drama was approaching, and it nearly made me groan aloud at how quickly my life had started to change ever since Father’s death.

The man moved closer, the sound of his sneakers shuffling on the carpeted floor of the room.

Upon closer inspection, he looked quite American, with a touch of Spanish influence in his features. His eyebrows were thick and sharply defined, and his face was perfectly sculpted—a contrast to my delicate, soft features.

We didn’t look anything alike.

“You really are gorgeous, Arlette. Much prettier than I heard,” the man praised, but I wasn’t buying all that friendliness. Alice was the same way the first time we met, and now she was a cold stepmother who barely even knew I existed.

“Who are you? And what makes you think we’re related?” I asked, straight to the point.

The old me would’ve indulged him with a joke or a smile. But I was getting tired of being pretentious.

The man feigned hurt as he held his chest. “Oof, Arlette. That hurt. I know we’re strangers now, but I promise you’re gonna love me.”

I raised a brow, still waiting for a proper introduction, and then he finally gave me one.

“Brandon Orozco,” he said, extending his hand toward me. I stared at his tanned olive skin before carefully taking it into mine. His grip was gentle, warm, and surprisingly, it felt comfortable giving him a handshake.

But that wasn’t enough for me to trust him.

“Orozco? Why not Whitmore?”

“I took my mother’s surname. She was traumatized, you know—he knocked her up, gave her a baby, and then disappeared. She wanted nothing to do with him,” Brandon explained, all the while grinning.

I didn’t want to just outright believe him. After all, anyone could cook up a story, and Father wasn’t here to defend himself either.

“I don’t believe you, Brandon,” I stated while my makeup artist and stylist disbanded, leaving us to our privacy.

Eleanor, on the other hand, was watching us like she was watching some soap opera, sipping lemonade with her legs swinging off the recliner she was sitting on.

“You’ve got evidence?” I heard Eleanor ask, and both Brandon’s and my attention fell on her. “You know, like some DNA test proving you’re actually Jaxon’s kid?”

Brandon chuckled, his voice deep. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” He then reached into the pockets of his ripped jeans and pulled out a paper, which he handed to me. The DNA test result showed a match with my father’s.

My face paled. Not because I was shocked that my father actually knocked up a random woman, but having an extra addition to my already broken family wasn’t something I could’ve ever imagined.

Eleanor whistled. “Now this is something straight out of a movie,” she exclaimed, and I could imagine her shaking her head while mine remained bent low, rereading the details of the test results.

I drew in a sharp breath. It didn’t matter if I wanted to accept him as my brother or not.

It didn’t change the fact that he was a Whitmore by blood, not adopted like Jacob.

Jacob already felt like an outcast in this family; I knew he’d feel even worse knowing Dad had a whole other child out of wedlock.

“So?” Brandon’s voice rang out, snapping me out of my inner monologue. “What do you think, sis?”

I pressed my lips firmly together. What did I think? My head snapped up to his.

I was upset! Dad didn’t tell anyone he had a kid somewhere, and now that he was gone, this supposed kid came out of hiding. I wondered how he even got to track me down in the first place—and why me? Why not confront Alice or Jacob?

I sighed.

Today was my wedding day. I wasn’t going to let this soil my mood, even though it was already too late.

“Look, I know this is the worst timing for this, but I swear I’m not here because I want anything from you. When Dad left my mom, it hit her hard, and she suffered from heartbreak till the day she died.” Brandon was no longer smiling cheekily.

His expression was now serious and hurt, almost as if he didn’t want to revisit his past.

“I just….” He sighed and ran a hand through his curly hair. “I just wanted to find what family I had left.”

Eleanor and I exchanged glances. Her hazel eyes were gentle, signaling to me that it was okay to let him into my life.

So, I turned my gaze back to Brandon, who looked hopeful as he glanced between me and Eleanor. I still had plenty of questions for him, but my time was running out. I needed to be at the vineyard for the wedding in about an hour.

“How old are you, Brandon?” I asked softly, my head tilted slightly so I could better read him. Unlike with me, his expressions felt genuine and real.