Page 18 of Bratva Baby

I tell myself it’s just the thrill of the chase. Soon, she’ll learn her place. But a little voice in the back of my mind whispers that it’s more than that.

Her body may be the biggest threat I’ve ever come across, and if I’m not careful, it’ll bring me to my knees.

Chapter 8 - Seraphina

I feel like I’ve lost control of my body. One day has passed since my disastrous wedding night, and I’m still furious at myself for surrendering to Grigor the way I did. That man made me crumble, turned my anger into something ravenous, and then walked away without a single glance back. Now I’m left replaying every second of that moment, disgusted that I allowed him to strip away my resolve so easily.

I’m holed up in what’s supposed to be “our” bedroom, though I’ve barricaded myself inside. The walls are painted in neutral tones, and the furniture is all polished wood and luxury. It doesn’t feel like my space at all; it belongs to someone else. Each time I look around, I remember how little say I had in coming here. When I think back on last night, I clench my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms. He made me want him, and then he left me at the peak of that wanting.

I want to hate him. Maybe I do. But there’s a flicker in me, a shameful part that craves more, and I despise that feeling more than anything else. I clutch a cushion and bury my face against it, trying to block out my own thoughts. It doesn’t help.

A knock at the door interrupts my brooding. I lift my head, scowling, and say nothing. Another knock. Still, I remain silent, hoping whoever is out there gives up and leaves me alone.

“Mrs. Barkov?” a soft voice calls. “Mr. Barkov said to tell you dinner will be served in thirty minutes.”

I grimace at the title: Mrs. Barkov. How nauseating. The invitation is the last thing I want. “I’m not hungry,” I snap. “Go away.”

A muffled pause, and then the maid responds, “But your presence is requested, Ma’am.”

“Tell him I’m not coming.”

I hear a quiet shuffle from the hallway but no more words. I wait, half expecting some pushy response. None comes. Perhaps that’s the end of it.

I lean back against the bed’s headboard, trying to calm the storm in my mind. Does he think I’ll just glide downstairs, all smiles and courtesy, after what he did to me? He humiliated me—brought me to the brink of satisfaction and left me quivering. The memory heats my cheeks, and I force myself to focus on other things: my father’s threat to my sister, the uncertain future I face in this household, and the fact that I have to spy on Grigor for my father. None of it lifts my mood, but at least it keeps me from thinking about last night’s betrayal of my own body.

Minutes pass, and I sink into a swirl of resentment. Just when I think I can relax, the door slams open with a bang, hitting the wall. I jerk upright to find Grigor standing in the doorway, with his gaze fixed on me and a grim set to his mouth.

“You were told dinner is ready.”

“Get out,” I retort with a cold rush flooding through me. “I’m not going.”

He stalks forward and shuts the door behind him. There’s a tension in his posture that makes every alarm in my head ring. “You’re going whether you like it or not.”

I scoff and cross my arms. “You can’t force me—”

He’s across the room in an instant. Before I can scramble off the bed or even finish my sentence, he lunges to snatch my arm. I lash out with my free hand, aiming for his face, but he easily dodges. The next moment, he lifts me off my feet and flings me over his shoulder like a sack of produce.

“Put me down, you bastard!” I shout, twisting and kicking.

He secures an arm around my thighs, pinning me in place. “Stop fighting. You’ll only make this harder.”

“Let me go!” I pound at his back, mortified by the position he’s put me in. He’s hoisting me around like I weigh nothing, marching out the door.

“Please, carry on,” I mock in a bitter tone. “I love being manhandled by my psycho husband.”

The hallway stretches ahead, and I catch flashes of the staff’s shocked faces. My cheeks burn. I try to hide behind my hair, but there’s no hiding from this humiliation. If I weren’t so busy kicking and snarling, I might burst into tears of rage.

He storms down a grand staircase, and each step jolts me until we reach the main floor. I hear voices from somewhere, conversations that abruptly stop when we enter the room. He heads toward a large dining room, complete with a massive table and more than a dozen chairs.

My fury only grows when I see new faces: men who have a strong resemblance to Grigor, plus a few others. They look up, startled, as Grigor strides in with me dangling over his shoulder. My heart drops to my stomach. I recognize his brothers from the wedding, though we were never formally introduced. There’s also a woman and three small children peeking from behind her. My humiliation soars to staggering heights.

He finally puts me down, gripping my shoulders to steady me. I stagger on wobbly feet. My hair’s a tangled mess, and I can’t bring myself to look at these strangers, but I sense them watching.

“This is Seraphina,” Grigor announces, a little breathless, whether from carrying me or from his anger, I’m not sure. “My wife.”

One of the men rises from his seat. “I’m Aleksei,” he says. There’s an air of authority about him that reminds me of a king addressing his court. “Grigor’s brother. You’ve already made quite the entrance.”

I can’t tell if that’s amusement or irritation in his tone. Maybe both. I lift my chin, refusing to appear cowed. “Not my choice.”

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