Page 7 of Forced to Marry the Bratva

If he truly cared for his daughter, would he have married her off to a man who is just a stranger to her? If I ever have a daughter, I would never put her through this.

But instead, I nod and vow to keep her safe. That’s all I promise—safety. Anything beyond that is not in my purview. I am a man of my word, and from this moment on, I shoulder the responsibility for her, even if the weight feels heavy.

Genevieve steps on the alter, and I sense her unease. I hold her hand till she takes her place and my mind quiets, thoughts of Gerald Russo and his scheming ways fading into the background, replaced by a sense of duty for my family. I let go of her hand the minute she seems stable on her feet.

“Dear friends and family,” the officiant begins, his voice solemn, “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Damien Zolotov and Genevieve Russo in holy matrimony.”

Genevieve stands beside me now, her veil obscuring her face. Her breaths come out in small, shallow puffs, betraying her nerves, and I, too, feel a shiver of unease.

“Repeat after me,” the priest instructs, his voice solemn and authoritative. “I, Damien Zolotov, take you-”

“I, Damien Zolotov, take you—” I echo, determined to see this through.

As the ceremony continues, I can’t help but steal quick glances at Boris, who looks both relieved and conflicted. He catches my eye, offering a grateful smile that speaks volumes. The love he has for Robin is worth the sacrifice I’m making, and at this moment, I know I’ve made the right choice.

“Genevieve, do you take Damien to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I…I… d…do,” she whispers out a broken acceptance, anxiety lacing her words. This is the first time I hear her voice and it’s as sweet as a bird’s. It’s soft, titillating, a world apart from her father’s roughness around the edges.

She sounds petrified. I frown, hating myself from her eyes.

“Please exchange the rings.”

I take her hand softly and let her fingers settle in my palm. She feels as light as a feather. I slip the gold band onto her finger, feeling the weight of the commitment we’re making. She mirrors my actions, trembling slightly as she places the ring on my finger.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The officiant pauses, then adds, “You may now kiss the bride.”

The words bring me back to the moment with a vengeance. For the first time today, my hands tremble as I reach for her veil. For a moment, I hesitate—this is the part that feels most intimate, most binding.

For the first time ever, I’m about to see my wife’s face and, in that momentous moment, feel her lips upon mine. I take a deep breath and don’t even notice I’m holding it in as I slowly lift the soft fabric, revealing her face. My breath catches in my throat, and I release it with a soft sigh as I look upon the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

Her soft green eyes meet mine, muted in uncertainty. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, and it makes her even more endearing. Her lips are slightly parted, a rosy hue dusting her cheeks. Her cheeks are full, placed high on her face, and her small, shaped chin trembles. Her skin glows like an angel’s.

Soft blonde tendrils frame her face. At that moment, time stands still as I take in every detail of her delicate features—the freckles scattered across her nose, the way her long eyelashes flutter against her skin.

Moments pass, with her veil in my hands, us rooted to our spots. She gently tilts her chin toward me, and I clear my head, casting her veil off her face. I pull back my hands and, without breaking eye contact, lean in slowly, giving her the chance to pull away or give me her cheek if she wishes.

The whole time, I keep my eyes on her, drinking in her beauty. Never in a million years did I think she’d be this exquisite.

To my surprise, Genevieve’s hand comes up to rest lightly against my chest, a silent permission that sends a jolt of warmth through me. With my heart stammering in her palm, I close the distance between us, my lips barely brushing against hers, testing the waters. She gasps, but she doesn’t pull away.

Emboldened by her unspoken approval, I press my lips more firmly against hers in a lingering kiss. A soft gasp escapes her, melting into the embrace of our locked lips. She trembles as I push forward and place my hand on the small of her back, egging her to lean back into it. I drive my tongue deeper into her mouth.

Behind us, cheers erupt. I barely hear the folks celebrate as my entire body erupts into a fiery fever, making it hard for me to stop. She tastes like a sweet poison, and had I known her, I would’ve swept her off her feet and taken her to the nearest bedroom. But I don’t know her, and that’s the only thing that forces me to pull back.

When I do, I open my eyes. She’s staring at me, a doe-eyed beauty, panting to catch her breath. Her rosy cheeks are now a deep cherry-red, and I feel uncharacteristically satisfied at knowing I did that to her.

“Congratulations!” the cheers continue around us, but they feel distant, as if they belong to someone else’s celebration. I’m celebrating something else entirely—the good fortune of having such a beauty by my side.

Chapter 4 - Genevieve

Damien pulls away from me and I’m still lost in his ice-blue eyes. My chest hurts from trying to get enough oxygen after what just happened.

I stand there, frozen in place. The lingering sensation of Damien’s lips on mine starts to burn. It was a kiss unlike any I’ve experienced before.

My heart races, and I lift my finger to my lips, outlining where the sparks still remain. But then, Damien takes my hand and raises it in the air, turning us to face the cheering crowd.

I feel like I’m in a trance, and I allow him to lead me forward.

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