Page 98 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

The gown hugs me like a second skin, fitted through the bodice before spilling into waves of ivory that shimmer faintly under the soft golden light. My hair’s pinned back in loose, deliberate curls, a few strands left to fall near my face. A veil rests nearby, untouched.

I haven’t decided whether I’ll wear it.

I take a breath. Hold it. Let it go.

I’m not nervous. I’m… still. Calm, in a way that feels dangerous.

Today, I marry Kolya Sharov. Not because I’m trapped. Not because I’ve run out of options or leverage or fight, because something in me—something broken and dark and real—wantshim.

The world may not understand that, but it isn’t for them.

I smooth my palms down the sides of the gown, watching the way the fabric glides beneath my fingers, and I catch the faintest tremble in my hands. Not fear. Not quite excitement.

Something else. Resolve.

There’s a knock at the door—quiet, respectful. I don’t answer. Whoever it is knows better than to come in.

My gaze shifts again, this time to the window. The sky outside is overcast, but the light still filters through soft and warm. Somewhere downstairs, I know the mansion is alive with quiet movement—security sweeping the perimeter, staff preparing the reception space, Boris barking instructions into his phone. It’s a Bratva wedding. Nothing is left to chance.

Except maybe me. Kolya never forced me into this. Not once. He didn’t need to.

I chose this. Chose him. Chose to bury the girl who flinched at shadows and walked into this fire instead.

Somehow, it makes sense.

My thoughts drift—without permission—to the last thread I never wanted to touch again. The one name that still echoes sometimes in the dark when sleep won’t come.

My father.

The last time I saw him, he was desperate. Not for redemption—he didn’t understand the word—but for control. Bargaining with memories. Gripping on to the idea that blood gave him rights to a daughter he abandoned in a closet while storms shattered the night around her.

He looked at me like I owed him something.

Then Kolya came. He didn’t speak about it afterward. Just one sentence, delivered cold and final, the way only Kolya can.

“He won’t hurt you again.”

I never asked for more. That part of my past is buried now, not under grief, but under the hard certainty that no ghost can touch me again.

There’s a strange kind of peace in that.

Maybe it should scare me—this life, this man. But what terrifies me more is the thought ofnotchoosing it. Of walking away and never feeling the way I do when his eyes find me in a room, when his hand wraps around my throat with reverence instead of rage. When he says nothing and still makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

There’s power in being wanted like that. God help me, I crave it.

I reach for the veil but don’t put it on. Instead, I trace the edge of it, soft between my fingertips. A symbol of purity, of tradition, of things I never had.

It doesn’t belong to me.

Kolya doesn’t want me pure. He wants mescarred. Sharp. His.

A soft knock comes again, followed by a familiar voice on the other side of the door.

“Elise? It’s time.”

I recognize the voice—it’s Alina, bless her. She volunteered to stand by me today, despite the chaos that has shadowed my life since the day we reconnected.

“Coming,” I say softly.

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