Page 37 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Her body stiffens beside me, and for a moment, I think she won’t speak.

Her voice, when it comes, is low but steady. “I do,” she says, the words clipped and devoid of emotion.

Her defiance is palpable, but she gets through it. I see the tightness in her throat as she forces the words out, her eyes narrowing as she stares straight ahead.

The priest nods and turns to me. “Makar, do you take Hannah to be your lawful wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” I say, my tone firm, certain.

The vows continue, the words mechanical and rehearsed, their meaning irrelevant to either of us. When it’s time to exchange rings, I slide the band onto her finger, the cool metal gleaming against her pale skin. She hesitates before placing my ring on my finger, her touch fleeting, her gaze distant.

The priest folds his hands, his expression solemn. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

The words linger, heavy and suffocating.

I turn to her, her jaw tightening as I lean in. The kiss isn’t romantic—it’s an obligation. My lips brush against her cheek briefly, the barest gesture of compliance. It’s cold, perfunctory, and when I step back, her gaze is icy.

The room erupts into polite applause, the sound measured and restrained. It’s done.

I extend my arm to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it. Her grip is light, almost nonexistent, but I lead her back down the aisle, the applause fading into a low hum of murmured conversation.

As we step into the adjacent hall, the silence between us feels louder than any applause could.

“Congratulations,” Andrei says, approaching with a sly grin.

I nod curtly, my grip on Hannah’s arm tightening slightly. “Handle the reception,” I order, my tone clipped. “Keep it brief.”

Andrei inclines his head, his gaze flicking briefly to Hannah before he steps away.

She pulls her arm from mine the moment he’s gone, putting space between us.

“It’s done,” I say quietly, watching her carefully.

“Don’t talk to me,” she snaps, her voice trembling with barely contained anger.

I raise an eyebrow, my lips curving into a faint, humorless smirk. “You went through with it,” I point out.

Her eyes blaze with fury as she steps closer, her voice low and sharp. “Yeah, I don’t want to know what you’d have done if I said no.”

“True.”

Her jaw clenches, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “You’re a monster,” she says, her voice trembling but resolute.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “This is your reality now. Whether you like it or not, my child is yours to bear.”

Her breath catches, her fury giving way to something else—something vulnerable and raw. But she doesn’t cry. She just stares at me, her eyes filled with a defiance I know will burn long after this moment.

“Enjoy the reception,” I say coolly, straightening. “You’re the guest of honor, after all.”

***

The reception is exactly what I planned—efficient, restrained, and purposeful. It’s held in the grand hall of my mansion, a room designed to impress without excess.

Crystal chandeliers cast a steady glow over polished marble floors, their light reflecting off the sleek black suits andglittering jewelry of the attendees. The air is thick with the scent of cigars, champagne, and unspoken alliances.

This isn’t a celebration. It’s a declaration.

I stand at the center of it all, Hannah at my side. Her hand rests lightly on my arm, though it’s clear from the stiffness in her posture that she’s doing it out of necessity, not choice. She’s trying to look composed, but I see through her—the tightness of her jaw, the subtle tension in her shoulders. She’s angry.

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