Page 22 of Forced Bratva Prisoner

“And what might that be?”

“You obviously have it out for my father, for whatever reason, and I want to ask that if you ever declare war on him or attack his house, you will find the housekeeper named Marie and let her escape unharmed. You won’t hurt her in any way.”

“A housekeeper?”

“Marie,” I nod.

He laughs.

“I’m not joking,” I snap.

His cold blue eyes narrow and pierce into mine. “Fine. Done,” he says.

I bite my lip and nod, closing my eyes for a moment to try and calm my thoughts.

“Done,” I repeat.

He takes a cautious step away from me, half expecting me to try and run again, by the look on his face. But I have made the deal I want to make, and I will marry him willingly.

Well, I will marry him without argument.

He takes another step away from me, and I step forward to follow him, walking obediently next to him back to our wedding ceremony.

He keeps glancing over at me, but I keep my eyes forward and my face blank. I’ll do this, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing any emotion from me. I’ve made my choice and sealed my own fate, and hopefully, at the end of the day, my choice can save Marie’s life.

Chapter 7 - Leon

“Do you, Leon Dubrov, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“And do you, Sasha Balakin, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”

A surge of excited energy rushes through me, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.

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

She leans back, just the slightest amount, and I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and pull her towards me, pressing my lips against hers.

My other hand travels down her back over the smooth, silky fabric. My memory flashes back to the moment at the club, all those same feelings, the heat, the passion—I pull away from her and step back, taking her hand in mine.

“Come, wife,” I say, ignoring the look of distaste on her face.

She lifts her lip in a mild grimace, but then quickly hides the expression.

I lead her inside the house to the dining room, where my lawyer is waiting with the wedding certificate for both of us to sign. I push her forward and nod towards the document.

She picks up the pen and scrawls her signature across the crisp, clean paper.

I do the same.

It’s official. We are married.

“Can I get out of this stupid dress and go back to my room now?” she asks in obvious frustration.

“No, that isn’t your room anymore. You are my wife now, and we will be sharing a room.”

---