Page 32 of Captured By the Bratva

The mention of family brings a question to my lips. “Were you friends with Elena?” I ask before I can stop myself.

It’s clear I’ve brought up a painful memory. He winces as if I’ve punched him. “This is not the day to speak of such things. Our guests wish to greet you.” He ducks away as several guests crowd around me.

“Mrs. Morosov,” a short balding man greets me, inclining his head. His voice is rough, laced with an thick Russian accent, and he avoids direct eye contact, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. “Congratulations. You bring honor and beauty to our boss’s life.”

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice steady though my insides are swirling. He gives me a slight bow and steps back, a silent acknowledgment of my position. I catch myself standing taller, his subordination casting away the shadows of my past.

Another man steps forward, this one with a scar running down his cheek, his eyes wary. “It is an honor to meet you, Mrs. Morosov,” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice, almost too subtle to notice, but I catch it. “If there’s ever anything you need… anything I can do to make you feel at home, you only need ask.”

I nod, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Thank you. I’ll remember that,” I reply, allowing a faint smile, feeling the power in my words, the way they affect him.

His shoulders seem to tense as if bracing for something, and I sense he’s waiting for Ivan’s approval of this exchange, as if one wrong move might cost him everything.

Behind him, I catch Nik’s eye, a slight nod from him reaffirming the control I have, the power Ivan’s name bestows on me here. The realization unfurls slowly, thrillingly, leaving me steady, where I used to feel small.

A third man, younger and looking almost out of place among these hardened criminals, steps up. He stammers slightly, glancing over his shoulder as if he’s making sure Ivan isn’t listening.

“Mrs. Morosov, um… welcome,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “We’ll do our best to make you comfortable here. I’m so sorry for the argument during the vows. Please tell your husband I only wished to silence that bastard from the Bianchi pricks.”

The cautious reverence in his voice—the hint of fear that Ivan might witness any disrespect—fills me with something deeper than satisfaction. It’s vindicating. Jimmy had spent years making me feel invisible, worthless, a burden.

Now, these men are nervous, deferential, showing respect for me because Ivan has commanded it. The thought strikes me like a bolt: Jimmy would never believe this if he saw it.

The man lingers a moment, clearly unsure if he’s met my approval. I raise an eyebrow, and he quickly lowers his head, muttering, “It’s truly an honor, ma’am.”

“It’s Mrs. Morosov,” I correct him, feeling a strange satisfaction as the words leave my mouth.

He nods quickly, swallowing. “Yes, of course. Mrs. Morosov.” He glances at Ivan, whose gaze is locked on him like a hawk, and the young man quickly steps back, practically retreating into the crowd as Ivan appears from nowhere, taking my hand in his.

“This way,” Ivan says. “The traditions must be upheld.”

18

CATHY

Ivan leads me out of the room and down a long corridor. We take a set of stairs upward. The air feels different in this part of the mansion—thicker, more charged. When we reach a doorway, he opens it, ushering me in with a hand at my back, his fingers resting firmly, possessively, against me.

The dim light from an overhead chandelier fills the bedroom in golden shadows, casting an almost eerie glow across the rich, dark furniture. The curtains are drawn, enclosing us in this private world, where even the walls seem to lean in, watching.

Ivan closes the door behind us, and I can feel his gaze sweep over me, heavy and assessing. He doesn’t move toward me right away; instead, he watches from a few paces back, allowing the quiet to stretch between us, his expression unreadable yet intent.

I stand still, barely daring to breathe as his eyes trace over me, the weight of his presence filling every inch of the space.

“Take off your dress,” he says finally, his voice low and commanding, his words lingering in the air like a challenge. There’s no question in his tone, no room for negotiation.

A spark of defiance flares up in me, but it fades almost as quickly as it appeared. The intensity in his gaze, the dark possessiveness—it all sends a shiver down my spine.

My heart races as I reach for the back of my dress, fingers trembling slightly. I lower the zipper, letting the fabric slip from my shoulders, and feel the cool air against my skin as it pools around my feet.

I stand there, feeling vulnerable and exposed, yet strangely powerful under his watchful gaze. There’s a thrill to it, a sense of control I hadn’t expected.

His eyes never leave mine as he steps closer, his expression both approving and possessive. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel the intensity radiating from him, as if he’s drawing me into his world with every breath.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice a dark whisper that sends another shiver through me.

He moves closer, his hand lifting to trace the edge of my collarbone, his touch both firm and gentle. “You are now mine,” he says softly as he kisses the ring on my finger. I find myself nodding, the reality of those words settling over me, a strange mix of safety and surrender.

My hands lift to his shoulders, fingers brushing the fabric of his suit jacket, hesitant but determined. His gaze is fixed on me, piercing and unwavering, watching every move, every flicker of emotion in my eyes.

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