Page 48 of Used Bratva Bride

Ivan groans. “Come on, the night is young.”

“For you, maybe,” I say dryly. “I have a wedding to prepare for.”

Ivan rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Be a responsible groom. I’ll drink in your honor.”

“Do that.” I give him a pointed look. “Try not to get yourself killed while you’re at it.”

He winks. “No promises.”

I shake my head, stepping away from the bar, ignoring the way people still glance my way, some with curiosity, others with interest. None of them matter.

No matter how much I drink, no matter how much I move, Julie lingers in my thoughts.

I know exactly what I want to do with her.

Soon, I’ll make sure she knows it too.

I step outside the club, the cold night air hitting me like a slap. The noise from inside fades as I pull out my phone and call my driver.

“Bring the car around,” I say, my voice low.

“Yes, sir.”

I hang up, inhaling deeply. The crisp air does little to clear my head, but at least it’s quiet. A stark contrast to the chaos of the club. Within minutes, the black SUV rolls up, the headlights slicing through the darkness. The driver steps out to open the door, but I wave him off and slide in myself.

The ride home is silent. I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, my mind still trapped in thoughts of Julie.

By the time we pull into the estate, the house is dark and quiet. I step inside, my boots echoing against the marble floors. The place is freezing, but I don’t bother adjusting the thermostat.

Instead, I find myself walking toward her room.

I open the door soundlessly, stepping inside just far enough to see her. She’s curled up in bed, the soft rise and fall of her breathing steady, her face peaceful in sleep.

I watch her for a long moment, lingering in the doorway.

She looks untouched, untouched by the world she’s been forced into. Soon, that will change.

Soon, she’ll belong to me.

I step back, closing the door quietly behind me. It’s only a matter of time.

Chapter Thirteen - Julie

“I do.”

The words leave my lips in a breathless whisper, barely audible over the roaring in my ears. My throat is tight, my stomach twisted into a series of painful knots.

I don’t know how I manage to keep my legs from giving out beneath me. The weight of the moment is suffocating, pressing against my chest, making it impossible to breathe properly.

Mikhail stands beside me, his presence overwhelming, his posture unwavering. He’s terrifyingly calm, as if this is just another transaction for him. Another deal sealed. His dark eyes remain fixed on mine, piercing straight through me, leaving no room for escape.

The officiant’s voice is distant, drowned beneath the deafening silence that seems to exist only for me. I barely register the words before he turns to Mikhail.

“Do you, Mikhail Sharov, take Julie Spade to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The response is instant, unwavering. “I do.”

His voice is deep, firm. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He says the words with the same confidence he carries in every aspect of his life. The confidence of a man who has always taken what he wants.

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