Page 38 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Resentful.

A man without spirit wouldn’t have caught my attention, and a woman without it wouldn’t survive in my world.

“Congratulations, Boss.”

Andrei is the first to approach, his smirk faint but unmistakable as he offers a handshake. I accept it, my grip firm.

“Thank you,” I say, my tone even.

His gaze shifts briefly to Hannah. “To you, Mrs. Sharov.”

She bristles at the title, though she hides it well.

“Thank you,” she replies stiffly, her voice clipped.

Andrei chuckles, clearly amused, before stepping aside to make way for the others.

One by one, they approach—lieutenants, trusted allies, key players in the Bratva. Their words of congratulations are polite, measured, and calculated. Each handshake is a reminder of the power shift this union represents.

Hannah endures it all with a quiet defiance that doesn’t escape me. She hates every second of this, but she’s smart enough not to show it too openly.

The room hums with low conversation, glasses clinking softly as my men make their obligatory toasts.

“To the Sharovs,” someone says, raising a glass. The rest follow, the words echoing through the hall.

Hannah doesn’t respond, her lips pressing into a thin line. I allow her silence.

When the last guest finally steps away, leaving us momentarily alone, I turn to her.

“This is your place now,” I tell her, my voice low and deliberate. “By my side. Under my name.”

Her eyes narrow as she glares up at me. “You don’t own me,” she hisses, her voice sharp and defiant.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “I do,” I reply coldly, letting the weight of my words settle. “Completely. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us.”

She exhales sharply, her anger radiating off her in waves.

“You belong to me now, Hannah,” I continue, my tone softening slightly but still firm. “Your loyalty, your obedience—they aren’t optional. They’re expected.”

“You won’t crush me,” she spits, her voice trembling.

I smirk faintly, unfazed by her insult. “Perhaps,” I say, my tone quiet but steady. “Everything you do, is because I allow it. Remember that.”

Her glare intensifies, but she doesn’t respond.

The rest of the reception proceeds like clockwork. My men offer more toasts, their words polished but predictable. I nod in acknowledgment, accepting their congratulations with the same calm detachment I’ve carried throughout the evening.

Hannah remains at my side, silent and rigid, a doll dressed in lace and satin. She smiles only when absolutely necessary, her resentment simmering just beneath the surface.

When the final guest departs, the grand hall falls into an uneasy silence.

I glance at her, noting the exhaustion etched into her features. “It’s time,” I say simply, offering my arm.

“For what?” she asks bitterly, though I can see the answer already dawning in her eyes.

I don’t reply, my gaze steady as I wait. After a moment’s hesitation, she takes my arm, her grip light and reluctant.

Her defiance is clear in every step as I lead her out of the hall. The sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor echoes through the empty space, a rhythmic reminder of her presence—and her resistance.

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