Page 30 of Captured By the Bratva

When the priest finally turns to me, I look to Ivan, uncertain. His eyes meet mine, and with a quiet authority, he steps closer, his voice soft but commanding as he instructs me, “Repeat after me.” His voice is low, each word carrying a weight that pulls mein, as if he’s drawing me to him, binding me with more than just words.

I try to form the sounds he speaks, foreign and difficult, each syllable a struggle. Yet under his gaze, I feel a compulsion to continue, to give in, as though there’s no other choice.

I repeat the words, the Russian strange and heavy on my tongue, and with each phrase, a cold shiver crawls up my spine, a sense that these words are more than vows—they are bonds, wrapping around me, pulling me into his world, weaving me into the fabric of his life.

A low murmur cuts through the vows. The sound is soft at first, a whisper from somewhere in the back, barely audible, but it breaks the atmosphere, shattering the sense of reverence in the air.

I glance back, my irritation rising. Two men, seated far enough away that they clearly don’t care about being discreet, exchange hushed words, their voices carrying just enough to be noticed. One becomes louder. An argument, clearly.

I clench my hands, feeling a ripple of unease shift through me, but before I can fully register the interruption, I feel Ivan tense beside me. His gaze sharpens, fixed on the two men with a deadly calm.

With a slight, almost imperceptible nod, Ivan signals to one of his guards, and in an instant, the man moves, crossing the aisle with swift, silent steps. The guard reaches the offender in seconds, hauling him up by the collar, his grip unyielding as he forces the man to his knees. The offender’s companion falls silent, eyes wide, too stunned to even move.

I barely have time to process the swift brutality of the gesture before Ivan strides over, his movements precise, controlled, each step radiating an authority that fills the hall.

The man on his knees looks up, his face paling as Ivan approaches, his fear evident in the way he visibly shrinks back,saying something in Russian. Ivan doesn’t hesitate; with a single, controlled movement, he backhands the man across the face, the sound echoing through the space like a gunshot.

“Insult my wife again,” Ivan growls, his voice low but dripping with menace, “and your blood will pour down my drains.”

A suffocating silence follows, every guest holding their breath, the weight of Ivan’s words hanging heavily in the air. The offender stammers, his voice trembling, barely able to form words as he mumbles a shaky apology, his gaze fixed on the floor, too afraid to meet Ivan’s eyes. Ivan stands over him, waiting, a predator assessing his prey, making sure the man understands his place.

When Ivan finally steps back, his gaze sweeps over the crowd, cutting through the room with a fierce command. “You will respect my wife as you respect me.” His voice is steady, calm, but the threat lingers, unmistakable. No one moves, no one dares breathe, as if his words have frozen them in place.

He turns to me then, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something possessive, almost protective.

He’s marked me in front of everyone, established an unbreakable boundary around me that no one in this room would dare to challenge. His control isn’t just over me; it’s over every person here, each one bound by the fear and respect he commands so effortlessly.

A strange, twisted sense of comfort settles over me, a feeling I can’t quite name. Despite the brutality, the cold dominance he’s shown, I feel something else, a dark security in knowing he would do whatever it takes to protect me.

It’s frightening and comforting all at once, a contradiction that leaves me feeling both claimed and safe.

As he returns to his place beside me, the hall returns to silence, the guests subdued, their eyes lowered in deference. Irealize, with a shiver, that Ivan’s power isn’t just something he wields over others—it’s something he’s now extended to me, binding me in a way that feels both inescapable and deeply intimate.

I’m no longer just standing beside him; I am marked as his, protected by the shadow of his dominance, even as a part of me recoils from it.

I glance up at him, his face impassive once again, but in his eyes, I see something darker, something that tells me this isn’t just about control. It’s about possession, about staking his claim, about making sure everyone in this hall knows exactly where I stand—with him.

The ceremony continues, the murmurs from before replaced by an almost oppressive silence as the guests watch, reverent and still. I barely register the priest’s low, rhythmic chanting, my focus entirely on Ivan as he takes my hand.

His grip is steady, firm, his touch warm against the chill of the ring he holds between his fingers. The ring is heavy and marked with a faint letter ‘M’, the gold catching the dim light in a way that makes it seem almost alive, as though it’s more than just a band—it’s a seal, a binding mark.

As Ivan slides it onto my finger, I feel a weight settle over me, a tangible reminder that there’s no turning back. The metal is cold, almost jarring against my skin, and my hand trembles, betraying the rush of emotions churning inside me.

Ivan notices, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, a brief glint of satisfaction crossing his face, as if he’s pleased with this visible surrender.

He lifts my hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine, and as his mouth brushes my knuckles, a shiver runs through me. It’s possessive, that kiss, a silent vow that feels more binding than any spoken word. The warmth of his lips against my skin lingers.

The priest’s voice fills the hall again, resonant and final. I recognize a few words—husband, wife—but the rest is lost in the heavy Russian syllables, words that sound ancient, unyielding.

Ivan’s gaze remains fixed on me, unwavering, and then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans in, brushing his lips against mine.

The kiss is brief, but it’s not gentle. It’s intense, a claim, a promise, something that leaves me breathless, feeling as though a tether has snapped, binding me to him with an invisible thread.

His hand tightens around mine as he pulls back, his expression unreadable, but his gaze says everything—he is staking his claim, marking me in a way that everyone in this hall, every Bratva member watching, will understand.

17

CATHY

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