Page 7 of Plus-Size Curves for the Bratva

Suddenly, the crowd parts, and there he is. Denis Zolotov, my husband of exactly two hours. He moves with the grace of a man who knows he owns the room, all lean muscle and coiled power beneath his impeccable suit. My breath catches, and I hate myself for it.

He's talking to a group of men, his low voice carrying hints of amusement. Even from here, I can see the others hanging on his every word, desperate for his approval. It's like watching a king hold court or something.

As if sensing my gaze, Denisi turns. Our eyes lock, and a jolt of electricity races down my spine. He smiles, slow and soft, and starts making his way toward me.

Oh god. My palms are sweating. I resist the urge to wipe them on my pristine white gown. God forbid he notices and sees right through me.

"Having fun?" he murmurs when he reaches me, one large hand settling on the small of my back.

I try to ignore how warm his touch is, how it seems to sear through the delicate lace of my dress. I tell myself I’m not moving away from his touch because people are watching.

"Oh yes," I chirp, channeling every ounce of fake cheer I can muster. "Nothing says 'fun' quite like being paraded around like a prize cow."

Denis chuckles, the sound rich and dark. "Such spirit," he says, his thumb tracing small circles on my back. "I think I’ll come to enjoy that about you."

“Don’t count on it,” I roll my eyes, and this time, I move away. The tracing circles on my back, however nice, are a recipe for disaster. I might forget all the plans I made, after all.

A distinguished-looking couple approaches, and just like that, Denis transforms. His smile becomes open, charming, as he greets them warmly.

"Ah, Ambassador, how good of you to come," he says, shaking the man's hand. "And Mrs. Petrov, you look lovely as always."

I watch, half-fascinated, as Denis effortlessly makes them feel like the most important guests in the room. I’ve seen him do it a dozen times already this evening. It’s thoughtful, in a way, to make everyone feel special on his big day. This whole gracious host act is making it hard for me to play it cool.

As a matter of fact, it frays on my nerves. My heart races, and I begin to fear I might forget what it is I want. Once again, I could find someone else running things for me, and that’s a mistake I can’t allow again.

And so, I tune out of the conversation, trying to prevent myself from accidentally discovering one more thing I might like about him.

But then Denis turns to me and my eyes focus on his steel-gray ones locking onto mine. "Shall we?" he asks, extending his hand. The simple gesture takes me by surprise and I feel like my brain is cotton.

“Sh…shall we what?” I inquire.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t state the obvious. His eyes shift toward the dance floor and I follow his gaze.

My heart skips, then races. The first dance. Of course. I should have expected this, but somehow, I'm caught off guard. My mind whirls with conflicting emotions—anger at being forced into this situation, fear of what's to come, and an unexpected flicker of… anticipation?

I hesitate, my fingers twitching at my sides. Part of me wants to refuse, to make a scene right here in front of all these important guests. It would serve him right to act so damn charming and happy when this occasion is anything but. Yet the more practical side of me knows that would only make things worse.

"Come now, Natalia," Denis murmurs encouragingly, his voice low enough for only me to hear. "It's just a dance."

Just a dance. Right. And this is just an arranged marriage to a man I barely know.

Taking a deep breath, I place my hand in his. "Let's get this over with," I mutter, forcing a smile for the benefit of our audience.

Denis leads me onto the dance floor, and the crowd parts before us like the Red Sea. As we take our positions, the opening strains of a waltz fill the air. The chandeliers dim, creating pools of soft, golden light that make everything feel dreamlike, surreal, and romantic—a recipe for disaster.

"Breathe, Natalia," Denis whispers as he pulls me close. His hand is warm on my waist, and I'm acutely aware of how small I feel next to him. "You look like you're about to faint."

I lift my chin defiantly. "I'm fine," I insist, even as the room seems to spin around us. "Just… not used to being the center of attention, I guess."

As we begin to move, I'm struck by how gracefully Denis leads. His touch is gentle yet firm, guiding me across the floor with effortless precision. Despite my attempts to remain aloof, I find my body responding to his, falling into step as if we've danced together a hundred times before.

"You're a natural," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I scoff, trying to ignore the shiver that runs down my spine. “Stop trying to flatter me.”

He chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "It's not flattery if it's true."

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. It's infuriating how charming he can be when he wants to! I try to focus on the steps, on anything but the warmth of his hand on my waist and the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

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