Page 49 of Used Bratva Bride

I force myself to swallow, trying to loosen the tightness in my throat, but the dread only grows as the officiant speaks again.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

I don’t have time to prepare myself.

Mikhail moves, and the air between us shifts. His large hands reach for my waist, firm but not forceful, pulling mejust enough that our bodies nearly touch. I barely have time to process before his lips brush against mine.

It’s gentle. The complete opposite of everything I expected.

For a moment, just a fraction of a second, the world around me disappears. The fear, the tension, the weight of this nightmare—it all fades. His lips are warm, his touch secure.

It doesn’t feel violent or possessive. It feels… calming.

The realization sends a new wave of panic through me, sharp and unsettling. I shouldn’t feel this way. Not about him.

Before I can process it, Mikhail pulls back. He lingers close enough that I can still feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.

I open my eyes slowly, hesitantly. His gaze is locked on mine, unreadable but intense. For the first time since this ordeal began, he doesn’t look like a man claiming ownership.

He looks like a man who just married me.

The room erupts in applause. Cheers, clinking glasses, murmurs of congratulations. It all feels distant, like I’m watching the moment happen to someone else.

Mikhail straightens, his hand sliding down to capture mine. His grip is firm, possessive. A silent reminder of the reality I now live in.

I am no longer Julie Spade. I am Julie Sharov. His wife. There is no escaping it.

The applause rings through the lavish ballroom, glasses clinking together in a celebratory toast, voices rising in cheers. People smile, laugh, and clap as if this is a joyous occasion, as if this union is something to be proud of.

All I feel is dread.

Mikhail’s grip on my hand is firm, grounding, in a way that only reminds me of how little control I have. I should be shaking, but I stand frozen, my face stretched into a hollow expression that likely passes as a nervous bride’s daze.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. My family isn’t here. Not my father, not my sister, not even Elise. No one from my world came.

This isn’t my world anymore.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep my chin high, to look composed even when my insides twist with unease. My wedding dress, as beautiful and extravagant as it is, feels heavy, suffocating. The fabric clings to my skin, trapping me in a role I never agreed to play.

Around me, Mikhail’s people are celebrating, their voices filling the room with warmth I will never belong to. I don’t know these men and women. I don’t recognize the faces smiling in approval, the ones offering their congratulations.

I search the crowd for something familiar, something to anchor me. There’s nothing.

My stomach knots painfully. I think of Elise—how she’d probably be lecturing me right now, telling me to stay strong, to fight back in whatever way I can.

I think of Sophia.

She’s never been affectionate, never been the kind of sister to hold my hand and whisper reassurances. At least she was something. A presence. A reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone in the Spade family.

And now? I have no one. Except for the man beside me.

I don’t dare glance up at him, but his presence is overwhelming. He stands tall, composed, his grip on my handstill unyielding, like he’s reminding me—this is real. You are mine.

The weight of it presses against my chest, suffocating me more than the tightest corset ever could.

A voice cuts through the noise, deep and confident.

“To the bride and groom!”

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