Page 13 of Paid for By the Bratva

The fleeting moment of tenderness dissipates as he moves back, and I suddenly feel aware of the disappointment at that action. What the hell is happening to me?

I take a step back and look at my feet, not wanting him to get any ideas. God forbid he ends up thinking I’m actually into him or something. Because there’s no way that’s true. I mean, it can’t be.

And yet…I can’t deny the pull I felt when he came to my rescue. How strong and brave he looked, how fiercely protective and loyal to a woman he owes nothing.

I wonder what it is he sees in me that’s enough to make him throw caution to the wind and marry me for my sake. Something tells me there has to be more to this than just wanting to protect the family.

“Shall we?” he says, observing how silent I’ve been. I pray he doesn’t notice I’ve been tense too. He gives me his arm.

I clear my throat, grasping for something to say to break the tension. Dima's gaze sharpens as he turns to me, brows drawing together. "What is it?"

A sudden wave of anxiety washes over me as I realize I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion. "Dima, I don't have a wedding dress,” I gesture to my jeans and blouse.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and I watch as his lips purse into a thin line, and he closes his eyes. Suddenly, I realize he’s trying to hold back laughter.

“What the hell?” I whack him on his arm without thinking twice. With four brothers, it’s now my intuitive response to a man laughing at me.

“Ow!” he pretends to be hurt and then doubles over in laughter.

“Seriously, Dima?” I feel the tension ease away from my shoulders. This little laugh we share is already making me feel at ease.

“While we’re at it,” he manages to snort out through the laughter. “It looks like the bridesmaids and groomsmen are missing too. Heck!” he stands now, a horrified look on his face, touching his pockets around at a maddening pace. “Lara! I think I lost the ring!”

Suddenly, the absurdity of my concern becomes glaringly obvious. Until hours ago, Dima and I only ever shared a few sentences, and now? We’re getting married. And I’m standing here worrying about a dress? His laughter brings me ease and flows over me like a gentle stream.

We’re doing this. No matter what. I might as well get on board now.

I stare at him wide-eyed, my hand flying to cover my mouth as I gasp in mock horror. “You lost the ring? Dima, you can’t be serious!” I play along, trying to keep my voice steady despite the butterflies in my stomach.

His eyes twinkle with mischief as he chuckles, and then his laughter fades. He looks down at me with a warm expression that catches me off guard. “I’m sure we can manage without a dress, don’t you think? Besides, you’d be the most stunning bride, regardless of what you’re wearing.”

His words hang in the air, and I find myself blushing at the unexpected compliment. My heart soars and I feel foolish for it. Why the hell does it affect me so to know that Dima Orlov thinks I’m stunning?

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He clears his throat uncomfortably as though he’s trying to find words. His mouth opens, then closes. Instead, he gives me his hand and a small nod.

I nod back, taking it. His hand, calloused and big around mine, feels like I’ve been touched by a force tethering me close.

I try not to tremble when we walk into the church, hand in hand.

***

My gaze wanders over the vaulted ceilings, the plush red carpet, the gilded accents along the walls. The church smells of beautiful, rich incense. There are a thousand lit candles drizzled across the room.

How did Dima convince the church to open for us at this hour?

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Dima's voice comes from behind me, his deep timbre sending shivers down my spine.

"Very," I admit, unable to tear my gaze away from the panorama before us.

"Come, there are some people I'd like you to meet." He gently places a hand on the small of my back, something he hasn’t done before, and I realize I like it when he leads. He guides me toward the entrance of the chapel.

Inside, the grandeur continues, with soaring ceilings, intricately carved wooden pews, and stained glass windows casting colorful shadows on the walls.

Once again, I find myself wondering how Dima managed to arrange all of this so quickly.

"Father Aleksei," Dima says, gesturing to an older man in traditional priest garb. "And this is Mr. Thompson, a government official." My surprise must show on my face, because Dima smirks and adds, "I told you I work fast."

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