Page 28 of Reign of Four

I pry her hand from my face and squeeze it tight. “You can’t marry three people.”

Her lips twitch as she tries not to smile. “Fucking watch me. It’s my life, my body, my Bratva. I’ll marry who I want.” She places her palm on my chest and pats it three times, once for each of her chosen men. “You. Ezra. Mikhail. Think about it. The people in this house, and by extension, this Bratva, won’t listen to you because we’re not legitimately married. But when I marry you, all three of you, they’ll have to listen to all of us. All four of us.”

Four people running a Bratva. There’s always been the pakhan and his advisors, but what she’s suggesting is different. Not just sharing duties and delegation, but sharing the woman behind it all. The Baranova who gives this Bratva its name.

It’s not much different than what we had planned, except I’d share the title of pakhan with Ezra and Mikhail, and we’d all be recognized as Valentina’s husbands in the eyes of the Bratva instead of only me claiming the title.

Even if we’re not recognized within state or federal laws, that’s not the issue.

It’s the Bratva we have to reckon with.

Could this actually work?

Valentina pats my chest once more, as though to console me. “And then, once that’s all settled and we recognize that I actually own my own damn life and choose my own husbands to rule beside me, we can kill Liam without all this war nonsense.”

A war is inevitable at this point, whether it’s against one man or twenty. The Dolohovs are gunning for the crown by any means necessary. If word gets out that they killed Katya, blood will fill the streets within the hour. Not to mention—“I saw how he looked at you.” My lips curve into a frown. “He’ll fight for you, and his family will fight to take over the Bratva. It’s already begun, zhena. The first act of war was kidnapping you, and the second was killing Katya.”

All it takes is one little breath, one small moment for her to process what I’m saying, for me to glimpse a crack in her armor. To see a hint of something soft and fragile beneath all the talk of war and death. To see the woman I first fell in love with.

“More people are going to die, aren’t they?” Her voice is as soft as it was the day I met her, and for that tiniest, tender moment, her innocence returns.

I want to shelter it. Keep it safe and avert her eyes, tell her that no, no one will die, but it would be a lie. One she’d see right through.

I resist the urge to step back into the past by cradling Valentina’s head in my hands and pulling her into my chest. I hold her as tight as I dare, probably too tight, as my heart does this funny little thing, pitter-pattering like it did when I first held her in my arms five years ago. I wish I could save even one tiny glimmer of that version of ourselves, but it’s too far gone, and this life far too dark and twisted to keep even a sliver of it alive.

My innocence was lost years ago, and Valentina’s slips through our fingers faster each day. Soon, there won’t be any part of that shy, fragile princess left.

In her place, will be a Bratva queen.

Our queen.

“Yes, people will die.”

She pulls away from me, a pinched frown on her face as she gathers her long, dark curls in her hands and ties them in a twist at the nape of her neck. When she’s done, she holds the knot and sighs. “Liam will be the last. Then this nightmare will be over.”

I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her—my woman, my wife, my queen. We don’t have much time left alone. This moment was a stolen slip of time, and it’s quickly running out. Shouts and gunfire rain down in the distance, and it’s only a matter of minutes before someone finds us.

I make her one final vow, pressing the words into her lips. “His life is yours, zhena. To take—to save—it’s your choice.”

Valentina nods, the sheer strength in her emerald eyes taking my breath away. That spark of fury when I first stole her away started a wildfire of emotion, but now, it no longer controls her. She controls her fate—the fate of this Bratva—and the fate of my heart.

Chapter 10

Mikhail

Carrying Katya’s body has to be the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life. I can’t believe I’m the one stuck with the dead bitch. Out of everyone in the room, fuckface had to pick me to haul her ass out of there. I had half a mind to laugh in his face and put a hole in his head right fucking there.

That would have been satisfying as hell.

Instead, I got to watch the ice queen choke on her own spit and face-plant on her dinner plate. What a fucking joke.

I grind my teeth as I haul her dead ass down the hall. She deserves worse than she got.

The other guards give me a wide berth as I walk by them, like they’re scared to be near a body. It’s not like she’s gonna jump out and bite them. All these bitches are pansies. None of them would survive a week on our side of the Bratva if they’re this green.

Still, I understand the aversion to this corpse in particular, one thousand percent. The bitch is nasty, with bloodshot eyes damn near popping out of their sockets and a stank red froth dribbling down her chin.

A wave of nausea rolls down my spine, and I have to swallow a gag. Bodies are disgusting. There’s a reason I don’t handle clean-up—I’m no good with decaying bits and stiff limbs. I pay others to do the dirty work for me. Always have, always will.

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