Page 7 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

I step forward, bringing my hands to either side of her face, just barely grazing the skin there. At the touch, I feel a shiver run through her body, and it sends one ricocheting through my body as well.

The way she’s looking at me—it’s like she wants to eat me alive.

For the first time in my life, I might just be meeting a woman half as dangerous and deranged as I am. My entire body reacts to this face with vehemence, making me lean forward, stoop down, and capture her lips with mine.

I only mean to brush my lips against hers, and then she rocks forward, pressing our lips together firmly and slipping her tongue into my mouth. It’s shocking and sudden, and she tastes so good—like cotton candy.

My body reacts, one hand going around to the back of her head, the other cradling her jaw more intently, tipping her head up for better access. We kiss like that, ravenous for one another, for longer than would be appropriate at a wedding, until I finally pull away, chest heaving, incredulous at this woman.

She brings her bound wrists to her face, using the back of a tied hand to swipe across her mouth, smiling at me as she does. The movement is so arousing that I have to look away for just a moment to gather my bearings.

When I glance away from her, I remember the live stream I have set.

“The papers, sir,” the officiant says, sliding them forward on the table. I lean down and scrawl my name hastily, then place the pen into Olive’s hand so she can sign her name along the line. When it’s finished, the officiant grabs them, stuffing them into an envelope. “I’ll take these to city hall on Monday morning,” he says, tipping his head at me and making a quick exit through the back of the chapel.

My bride smiles. I clear my throat, turning back to the phone, ignoring the shocked looks on my brothers’ faces. Wanting to take back some control of the situation, I take her by the back of her dress and haul her over so she’s standing next to me.

“Say hi to your daddy,” I say, laughing through the words and doing a little wave to the camera.

“Why?” she asks, glancing over at me. “Is this broadcasting to the afterlife?”

My head jerks around to her.

“Don’t fuck with me, Olive,” I growl, “just say hi to daddy Allard.”

“This is so rich,” she laughs, then, turning to the camera, she says, “Hi, Mr. Allard. I hope you have really good incidentals insurance.”

“Turn it off,” I snap to Anton, who jumps up from his seat and fumbles with the phone to turn it off. Then, looking back at Olive, I say, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“When he hired me,” she says, “he didn’t say anything about the risk of kidnapping.”

“When he hired you?”

“Yes, I’m an intern at Mr. Allard’s company.”

“Why are you calling him that?”

“Well, it would be kind of inappropriate to call my boss by his first name, don’t you think?”

“Your dad.”

“Yeah, I wish,” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “No, my dad OD’ed on narcotics six years ago. That happens when you have a traumatic brain injury from a service in Panama.”

“Your father…”

“You really didn’t look at a picture of Olive before trying to kidnap her? And, by the way, you would have had a much easier time if you’d just waited outside Alors downtown. That’s the club she always goes to with her friends. Olive never stays late; she just bribes me to do it. She’s addicted to her vape—wouldn’t go more than five minutes without ducking outside to use it. Which you could have discovered with just like—a day of surveillance?”

Why is it turning me on that she’s talking to me like this? I stare at her, my mind racing. If this isn’t Olive Allard, then who the hell did I marry?

“Fiona Chase,” she says, holding out her bound hands to mine. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Milov.”

What kind of woman acts like this when she’s just been kidnapped? When she’s just been forced to marry someone? Who the hell is Fiona Chase, and what have I gotten myself into with her?

“Aren’t you the slightest bit concerned that you’ve just married a man you don’t know?” I murmur, leaning down closer to her. She smells like soap and vanilla. “Doesn’t that bother you, Fiona Chase?”

“Oh,” she says, taking a step closer to me, her eyes like lasers drilling into my skull. “If one of us should be concerned about this arrangement, Mr. Milov, it’s not me. And besides, we’re not married. I signed Olive’s name on that paper, so if you’re married to anyone, it’s her. But that’s never going to go through the court system—not with Mr. Allard’s lawyers. But good luck.”

“Fuck!” I roar, turning and slamming my palm into the altar. “Fucking fuck.”

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