Page 7 of Arranged Bratva Virgin

The music starts playing and the crowd settles down to a silent hushed excitement as they all turn towards the other end of the isle, waiting for the first glimpse of Darya.

My heart is thundering so loudly it feels as though the people standing close to me might be able to hear it.

She steps out onto the carpet with her arm looped through Ivan’s. And suddenly, my heart makes no sound at all. It’s as though the entire world is beneath water. Everything is moving in slow motion. She moves so gracefully as she walks towards me, her eyes not meeting mine, a soft white veil obscuring my view of her face.

Her dress is ornate and delicate. Lace clings to her body, hugging her waist and then flaring out over her hips. It accentuates her curves in the most beautiful way.

Her arms are wrapped in lace sleeves that don’t go all the way up to her shoulders. Her long, slender fingers are wrapped around a bouquet of white roses and big wild lilies, and I wonder what it would be like to feel her fingers on my skin.

Ivan stops just in front of me and turns his back to me as he lifts the veil from her face.

Her eyes are locked onto him, and a tight smile is pressing her luscious lips together.

He kisses her cheek and then steps away.

Darya comes to stand in front of me, and finally her bright blue eyes and the dream world contained within them meet mine.

It feels like a tidal wave slams into my chest beneath the intensity of her beauty. I am completely removed from this world and dragged into those swirling blue pools of magic.

I blink, trying to drag myself back to reality.

“Shall me we begin,” the pastor says with a broad smile.

I hardly hear the words as he moves through our ceremony.

She is boldly looking right at me the entire time, and it is driving me wild.

“Do you, Stefano Napoli, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.” The deepness of my voice rumbles from me, and I feel the tendrils of my words wrap around her, claiming her as my own.

“Do you, Darya Dubrov, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.” Her words are like a whispered promise that drifts towards me on a soft ocean breeze, taunting me with possibilities.

“I pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss your bride.”

I waste no time stepping forward and wrapping my arm around her waist. Her eyes grow wide with fright as I pull her tight little body right up against mine, pressing her against me, and tilt her backwards so that I can lock my lips with hers.

For a second, I feel her resistance, but then she gives in; this is, after all, part of the tradition.

Her lips are warm and soft, and while she does not fully allow the kiss, it still sends shivers through me, like a wildfire waiting to tear away at some open field. My hand cups around her narrow waist, giving me the impression that I could just lift her in one arm and carry her away with ease.

Which is what I intend to do.

She pulls back and I release her from the kiss, but now I cannot hide the smirk on my face. My skin is heated and sharply sensitive. I want to feel her again.

We turn to walk down the aisle, hand in hand, past all of our guests. Cameras flash and people cheer, but I hardly notice. All I notice is the feel of her fingers locked with mine.

My wife.

Darya is my wife. She now belongs to me, and no one will ever be able to change that or take her away from me.

The reception is long and tedious. It feels tense whenever one of her brothers comes to talk with us. I can see they are still not very happy about all of this.

“Congratulations,” Kiril says, lifting his glass of champagne towards me.

I do the same and the edges of our glasses chime.

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