Page 27 of Pregnant By the Bratva

“Do you, Ivan Sharov, take this woman, Sarah Williams, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do you part?” the priest asks, his voice carrying through the quiet space.

I keep my eyes on Sarah, watching the way her breath catches slightly, the tension in her shoulders. She’s been fighting this every step of the way, but this is where it ends. This is where she becomes mine, in every sense of the word.

“I do,” I say, my voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. There’s a finality to the words, a promise that goes beyond the typical vows of marriage. This is not just about love or commitment; it’s about possession, about power, about ensuring that our child is born into the world with the Sharov name.

The priest turns to Sarah, his eyes gentle, as if he senses the storm brewing inside her. “And do you, Sarah Williams, take this man, Ivan Sharov, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do you part?”

She hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for me to notice. Her green eyes flicker to mine, searching, perhaps for a way out, for something she won’t find. There is no escape, no other path for her now. This is her life, and I’m the one holding the reins.

“I do,” she finally says, her voice steady, though I can see the turmoil behind her eyes. She’s accepted her fate, at least outwardly, but I know Sarah well enough to understand that the fight in her isn’t over yet.

The priest nods, a small, solemn smile on his face as he continues with the ceremony. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I step forward, closing the distance between us. My hand reaches out, gently lifting her chin as I lean in. Her lips are soft, but they’re pressed together, unyielding, and I can taste the bitterness there. This isn’t the kiss of a joyful bride. It’s the kiss of a woman who knows she’s been conquered, bound by vows she never wanted to take.

“Say it,” I whisper against her lips, my voice low enough that only she can hear. “Say you’re mine.”

She pulls back slightly, her eyes flashing with defiance, but she says nothing. I let it slide, for now. The vows have been spoken, the kiss sealed. She may not say it yet, but she will. In time, she’ll understand that this is where she belongs—with me, by my side, as my wife.

The room is filled with the weight of what’s just happened, the finality of it settling over us like a heavy shroud. I take her hand in mine, turning to face the small gathering of men who have witnessed this union. Their expressions are solemn,respectful, as they nod in acknowledgment of the vows we’ve taken.

As we make our way down the aisle, the reality of it all begins to sink in. Sarah is mine now, legally, irrevocably. And while this marriage may have been born out of necessity, out of the need to protect our child and secure the future of the Sharov name, there’s something else simmering beneath the surface. A desire, a need that I can’t quite shake.

She’s beautiful, yes, but it’s more than that. There’s a fire in her, a strength that draws me to her, even when she’s fighting me every step of the way. I want her, in every sense of the word, and now that she’s my wife, I have every right to claim her.

As we reach the doors of the church, I pause, turning to her once more. Her eyes meet mine, a mix of emotions swirling there—fear, defiance, resignation. There’s something else too. Something that sparks a dark thrill in my chest.

“You’re mine now,” I say quietly, my voice firm. “You may not like it, but that’s the reality. This is your life, Sarah. You’d better start accepting it.”

She says nothing, her jaw tightening as she looks away. I can feel the resistance in her, the fight that hasn’t been extinguished yet. Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

As we step out into the cold air, I tighten my grip on her hand, leading her to the waiting car. This marriage is a necessity, a means to an end. As I watch her, feeling the warmth of her hand in mine, I can’t help but think that it might become something more. Something I never expected.

The wedding feels like a blur as we step through the door of my home—our home, now. The silence in the grand entrywayis a stark contrast to the tension that’s been simmering between us all day. I shrug off my jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair, already feeling the weight of the evening starting to lift. The moment we crossed the threshold, the formality of the day began to dissolve. Now, it’s just Sarah and me, alone in the quiet of our home.

My phone rings, shattering the stillness, and I answer it with a sigh, nodding to Sarah as I gesture for her to go ahead. It’s one of my men with an update—a matter that requires my attention, but nothing that can’t be handled with a few terse words. Still, it takes a few minutes, and by the time I hang up and head to our bedroom, I find that Sarah has already taken a shower and changed.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in silk pajamas that cling to her curves in all the right ways. Her hair is damp, falling loosely around her shoulders, and she looks up at me as I enter, her expression unreadable.

“I won’t be long,” I say, heading to the bathroom for a quick shower. The water is hot, almost scalding, and I let it wash away the remnants of the day—the ceremony, the vows, the weight of what we’ve just done. But beneath it all, there’s a simmering anticipation that I can’t ignore. I’ve been craving her, more than I care to admit. And judging by the way she’s waiting for me, I know she’s been craving me too.

When I step out of the shower, I towel off quickly and pull on a pair of loose pants, leaving my chest bare as I return to the bedroom. Sarah is still sitting on the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, her gaze following me as I cross the room. There’s a tension in the air, thick and electric, and I can see the way her breath catches slightly as I approach.

A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I take in the sight of her—beautiful, vulnerable, and undeniably mine. “You’ve been waiting for me,” I say, my voice low and teasing. It’s not a question. We both know it’s true.

She doesn’t respond immediately, but the way her body shifts, the way her gaze flickers down to my chest before meeting my eyes again, tells me everything I need to know. I move closer, placing a knee on the bed as I lean in, my hand brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face.

“I know you want this,” I murmur, my lips grazing her ear. “Even if you try to deny it.”

A shiver runs through her at my words, and for a moment, I see the conflict in her eyes—the push and pull of desire and resistance, of wanting something she knows she shouldn’t. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, almost a whisper.

“You’re right,” she admits, her breath warm against my skin. “I do want this.”

The admission sends a rush of satisfaction through me, and I waste no time closing the distance between us, capturing her lips in a heated kiss. It’s not gentle; it’s possessive, demanding, everything I’ve been holding back all day. Sarah melts into it, her hands coming up to clutch at my shoulders as she pulls me closer.

I lower her onto the bed, pressing my body against hers, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin silk of her pajamas. My hands roam over her curves, exploring every inch of her, and she arches into me, a soft moan escaping her lips as I tease her, my fingers slipping beneath the fabric to trace along her thigh.

“You’re mine, Sarah,” I whisper against her lips, my voice rough with desire. “I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

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