Page 50 of Used Bratva Bride

The guests echo the sentiment, lifting their glasses, their eyes shining with approval. The champagne sparkles under the golden chandeliers, a glittering facade of elegance that masks the ugliness of what this really is.

A transaction. A power move. A marriage built not on love, but on revenge.

I force a small smile, nodding at the sea of strangers raising their glasses in my honor. My fingers curl slightly against Mikhail’s palm, but he doesn’t let go.

He never lets go. I wonder if he can sense the way my body is trembling just beneath the surface. I wonder if he likes it.

***

The journey back to the estate is a blur.

I barely register the whispers of congratulations as I’m led out of the reception, barely notice the way Mikhail keeps a possessive hand on the small of my back as we move through the crowd. The luxury car waiting outside is sleek and black, its presence an unspoken command.

My new life. My new prison.

I sink into the leather seat, staring out of the window, watching the city lights blur past as we leave behind the grandeur of the wedding. No one speaks. I don’t dare to. Mikhail sits beside me, composed, unreadable. I don’t look at him. I can’t.

The silence stretches, suffocating, until the car finally slows, pulling through the iron gates of the estate.

The house—no, my home now—is just as imposing as before. Cold, extravagant, the very essence of power wrapped in luxury.

I’m escorted inside, past watchful guards and stoic staff, and led up a grand staircase. At some point, someone—one of the maids, maybe—murmurs something about my room, and then I’m standing in front of a massive door, pushed open to reveal an elegant yet unfamiliar space.

My new room.

I step inside slowly, taking in the massive bed, the plush carpets, the dim lighting casting warm glows against the deep wood furnishings. It’s beautiful, but it isn’t mine. Nothing in here feels like me.

I feel Mikhail’s presence at my back. I don’t turn.

“This is where you’ll stay,” he says simply.

His voice is calm, controlled, and yet there’s something in it that makes my spine stiffen.

I don’t answer. I just nod, moving toward the bed with heavy steps. My limbs ache with exhaustion, my mind clouded with too many emotions to name. The moment my fingers brush against the silky sheets, I decide—I can’t do this tonight.

So I slip off my shoes, carefully pull the covers back, and ease myself onto the mattress. I don’t even bother changing.

I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. I hear him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and I exhale slowly, waiting.

Time stretches on. The house is eerily silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of voices downstairs. I curl tighter into myself, my body rigid despite the soft bed beneath me.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Controlled. I hold my breath.

The door opens. I feel his presence before I see him, the air shifting, the weight of it settling over the room.

I keep my eyes closed, my breathing measured, feigning sleep.

It doesn’t fool him. I feel the mattress dip, the heat of his body presses closer.

My breath catches as a hand brushes against my arm—light, teasing, deliberate. My lashes flutter, and before I can stop myself, I open my eyes.

Mikhail is above me. His face is close, too close, his dark eyes locked on to mine with an intensity that makes my stomach twist. My heart pounds, my entire body buzzing with something I can’t name.

Not fear. Something else.

His lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk. His gaze roams over me, taking in my tousled hair, the way my dress is wrinkled from lying on the bed. His fingers trail along the curve of my arm, barely touching, just enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Then he asks, voice low, controlled—too controlled, “Are you a virgin?”

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