Page 14 of Bratva Baby

Chapter 6 - Seraphina

I wake up feeling like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, one step from plunging into something I can’t control. Part of me wants to jump, if only to get it over with. It’s my wedding day—the day I’m supposed to marry a man I can’t decide if I despise or secretly crave. My head’s a riot of emotions I can’t label. But one thing is certain: I’m not going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.

I brush off the help of the maid, ignoring the pristine gown Grigor helped me choose a few days ago. A white, elegant thing that probably costs more than some families make in a year. All that lace and glitter doesn’t suit me. Instead, I pull out the dress I ordered in secret, one my sister helped me smuggle upstairs without Father’s knowledge. It’s black—inky, scandalous, and guaranteed to send a clear message that I don’t care about tradition or expectations.

The fabric clings to every inch of my body from collarbone to mid-thigh, with a daring cut that shows plenty of skin along my legs. Spaghetti straps and a deep neckline reveal more cleavage than a bride should, while the back plunges low, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. When I slip into it, I feel a wicked thrill. If they’re going to force me to marry Grigor Barkov, the least I can do is scandalize everyone in the process. Let them call me a disgrace. I’d rather be that than an obedient doll.

I exhale, glancing in the mirror before I line my eyes with a bold sweep of black and add a smudge of deep red lipstick, the color Father always forbade me from wearing. Today, I intend to break every rule he’s ever drilled into my head. If the Bratva has to see me as Grigor’s wife, then I’ll give them the most provocative image possible.

A knock on my door interrupts my reverie. Cecily peeks in, her face pale. “You’re really not going to wear the gown you got with Grigor?”

I smirk and smooth my hand down the tight fabric. “Fuck no, I’m not.”

“Father’s going to lose it.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll have a stroke and call this whole thing off.”

“Seraphina… please be careful. Father won’t forget a stunt like this.”

My heart squeezes for a moment, and guilt pricks at me. Cecily looks like she’s searching for a way to protect me, but there’s nothing she can do. We’re way past that point. I give her a curt nod and swallow the lump in my throat. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Downstairs, the foyer is abuzz with guards and distant relatives I barely recognize, all wearing suits or formal dresses in predictable, dull colors. The minute I appear, conversations hush. It’s like I walked into a secret meeting unannounced. Good. Let them stare.

My father stands near the doors, and I don’t miss the way his face pales when he sees me in black. Fury burns behind his eyes, but he manages a tight-lipped smile for the guests. I angle my head, daring him to call me out in public. He doesn’t. I can practically hear his teeth grinding.

He gestures stiffly. “We’re behind schedule.”

I stride past him. “I’m sure everyone can wait a few extra minutes.”

He doesn’t argue, but the muscle in his jaw pulses. I revel in it. If I’m marrying Grigor Barkov, at least I can remind my father that I’m not his puppet.

A swarm of attendants fuss over me. They bring bouquets of white roses and baby’s breath, as though that will transform my black dress into something bridal. I let them have their illusions. My father greets a few of his shady associates by the entrance as they step inside, plastering on a public grin. Meanwhile, Grigor stands off to the side, talking to his own set of men. He’s in a black suit tailored to perfection with a crisp shirt, and a tie that complements his dark hair. He glances in my direction when he senses me approaching, and his eyes widen in surprise.

He recovers quickly. “I thought you’d be wearing the dress we picked out.”

I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I had a change of heart.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, and he gives me a look that borders on admiration. “You like stirring up trouble, don’t you?”

His amusement grates on my nerves. I wanted a reaction—outrage, maybe even fury. But he seems entertained, which only irritates me more. Before I can snap at him, an older man who’s officiating calls everyone to take their places.

Rows of seats line our living room, with guests packed in. Most come from my father’s side or Grigor’s Bratva circle. After circling to the back of the room, I march up the aisle, ignoring the gasps and whispers that ripple when people get a look at my scandalous gown. Father is near the front, scowling. Grigor waits at the fireplace, which has been decorated to act as an altar, with his arms at his sides and his face composed except for a slight upward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

I stand next to him, refusing to look at his face. My father steps forward, though there’s no fatherly love in his posture. He’s fulfilling a duty, handing me off like a piece of property. An officiant with a script in hand begins some formal words about unity and bonds. I barely listen.

When it’s time for vows, Grigor repeats the standard lines, and I watch him from under my lashes, studying the firm set of his jaw. Each word from his mouth is robotic. I brace for a wave of revulsion, but instead, a shiver creeps over me. Maybe I’m frightened of what happens once I’m officially his wife. Or maybe part of me is oddly intrigued by the idea of belonging to a man as dominating as Grigor, even if I swore I’d never give in.

My turn. I say the vows with forced politeness. It feels surreal, promising my life to a man I spent the last few weeks insulting. When the officiant asks if I take this man to be my husband, I tilt my chin up. “I do,” I say with a bitterness that only someone not paying a lick of attention could miss.

He slides a ring onto my finger—a band of platinum with a small stone set into it. I wonder if he picked it himself or if some underling did it. Either way, it’s now a symbol that I’m bound to him. Forever or until one of us ends up dead in a gutter, because that’s how our lives usually go.

The officiant smiles before announcing we’re married. Grigor doesn’t waste a second. He grips my waist and kisses me in front of everyone—hard, insistent. My veins roar with a foreign heat, and a tingling floods through my limbs. It’s not gentle or sweet. It’s claiming, and something inside me responds to that demand.

My hands fly up, pressing against his chest, either to push him away or pull him closer. I can’t figure out which. My brain scrambles. For a moment, I forget I’m angry. I forget my father’sglare. All I feel is Grigor’s mouth on mine, coaxing something out of me I didn’t know existed.

Then he pulls back, releasing me. My breathing staggers and my body betrays me with a flush of heat. Grigor’s eyes search mine, and that amusement is dancing there again, but now, it’s mixed with something more primal. He knows he rattled me. I clench my fists, infuriated with myself for feeling this way.

The applause in the room is half-hearted, probably because most of these men don’t care about romance. Father stands there with an expression like he wants to shoot Grigor on the spot for kissing me like that so publicly. But there’s nothing he can do. We’re married now, whether I like it or not.

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