Page 100 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

His mouth curves with something wicked. “Don’t tempt me.You know what happens when you do.”

I step back with a teasing smirk, smoothing my gown with both hands. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

Kolya’s hand lingers a second too long before he lets go.

His eyes rake over me one final time, possessive and unrepentant, like he’s committing this version of me—gowned, flushed, breathless—to memory. Then he nods, steps back, and disappears through the doorway without a word.

I stand in the silence he leaves behind, every inch of me still tingling. The scent of his cologne clings to the air. The ghost of his mouth lingers on my lips. My heart thunders—not from nerves, not anymore, but from knowing that man is going to be mine in every way, in front of the world.

The door creaks again.

Alina re-enters in a rush, breathless and wide-eyed, picking up the veil on her way. She stops short and gives me a look, something knowing flickering across her face.

“I thought maybe you got cold feet,” she murmurs with a wry smile, stepping close. Her eyes narrow. “By the look of you, I think your fiancé got to you first.”

I roll my eyes, cheeks warming. “He’s impossible.”

“But hot,” she adds, pinning the last of my curls into place. “Don’t forget that part.”

I glance at the mirror again. The gown’s slightly rumpled at the waist, the bodice askew. Alina notices too and grins, tugging at the fabric with practiced fingers until it lies flat again.

When she’s done, she smooths a hand over my shoulder. “You ready?”

I nod once. Steady. Certain.

The hall is quiet as I step into it, the weight of the veil whispering behind me like silk shadows. The world outside that door doesn’t know what’s coming. They see Kolya Sharov as a king, a monster, a god in a suit.

The music swells again.

Soft strings, slow and elegant. My cue.

I walk alone—no one to give me away, no trembling hand at my side. Just me. Every step is a choice. A declaration.

Then I see him.

At the far end of the aisle, Kolya waits beneath an arch of white lilies and soft-draped silk. His hands are clasped in front of him, his face an unreadable canvas of control.

Until our eyes meet. Then everything in him changes. The hardness softens, the pride sharpens.

His gaze drags over me like a caress, and I feel it in my chest, in my belly, in places deeper still. Like his eyes are hands and I’m already undressed beneath them.

The crowd blurs around me—flashes of faces, champagne flutes, whispered awe. But none of it matters.

Just him.

I stop in front of him, my hands trembling slightly as I reach for his. He takes them without hesitation, his grip strong, warm, grounding.

“Hi,” I whisper.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You kept me waiting.”

“I was busy getting kissed.”

That smirk deepens. “Was it any good?”

I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “You tell me.”

A faint, growled curse escapes his throat, low enough only I can hear.

---