Page 101 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

The officiant clears his throat politely, drawing us back to the moment.

We turn to face him, but Kolya’s fingers tighten around mine like he has no intention of letting go again.

The words wash over me—vows, promises, ancient rituals made modern by a man who has no god but power, and no faith but in his own fists.

Yet, when it’s Kolya’s turn to speak, he does it without notes. Without hesitation.

“Elise Emberley,” he says, voice low, steady. “You were never meant to be part of this world. Still, you walked into it—fought it, challenged it, bled for it. For me. There’s nothing I can give you that matches that. I swear this. I’ll burn it all down before I let it touch you again. You’re mine, and I’m yours. In this life, or whatever comes after.”

My throat burns.

The officiant nods gently. “Elise?”

I meet Kolya’s eyes and speak without a script.

“I never wanted this,” I say, soft but sure. “Not the danger. Not the chaos. But then I met you. You ruined me, Kolya Sharov. You taught me how to fight back. How to want. How to need. You gave me fire. So now I’m yours, because I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

His jaw clenches like he’s trying not to react. His eyes burn into me like he’s committing every word to memory.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

He doesn’t wait.

Kolya steps forward, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other behind my neck, pulling me into him like he’s waited centuries. His mouth claims mine with a dark hunger, deeper than anything we’ve shared before. I melt into it, arching against him, my fingers tangled in his lapel, my body responding to his without thought.

There’s heat. Tongue. Teeth. Someone gasps. Someone cheers.

All I hear is his breath, his low growl when I nip at his lip, the way his fingers slide just slightly down my spine, enough to promise more.

The kiss breaks reluctantly. My lips are swollen. My breath is gone.

His hand curls around my jaw as he leans in close, mouth against my ear. “You look good in white,” he rasps. “But I’ll have it off you before sundown.”

A thrill runs through me. “Promises, husband?”

His answering smile is pure sin.

“Absolutely.”

Then his mouth is on mine again—rougher this time, possessive, unbothered by the guests or the applause swelling behind us. His hand slides to my lower back, pressing me flush against him as if to say:you’re mine now, in every way.

When he finally pulls back, I’m flushed and breathless, my lips tingling, heart pounding in my chest like a war drum. I can feel the weight of every stare, the stir of whispers. None of it touches me. Kolya’s gaze is locked on mine, and in it, there’s nothing but pride. Hunger.

His fingers lace with mine.

We turn together, face the aisle, and begin our walk as husband and wife.

The walk down the aisle feels longer now, more surreal. The air is thick with heat and champagne and unspoken power. Men nod respectfully as we pass, women with diamond-draped throats offer polite smiles, some laced with envy. None of them matter.

Boris is waiting just outside, leaning against a sleek black town car. He eyes Kolya with a knowing smirk and opens the back door without a word.

“About time,” he mutters under his breath.

Kolya grunts in reply and helps me into the car, his hand lingering at my hip a little longer than necessary. When he climbs in beside me, the door slams shut, sealing us inside.

I glance at Boris in the rearview mirror. “To the mansion?”

He meets my eyes briefly. “Already waiting for you.”

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