Page 28 of Convenient Vows

Not just because of the arrangement, the politics, or the weight of what this means for my family — but because of Zasha Petrov.

The man I’ve watched from afar for years, the man whose sharp eyes and cold, lethal calm have always stirred something deep and restless inside me.

And now, I’ll stand at his side — as his wife.

My fingers tighten on the pillow, and I press it faintly against my chest, heart fluttering wildly as my mind flickers back to tonight. To his mouth on mine.

The way his hand fit perfectly around the side of my face, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone, the firm pull of his body as he drew me in and kissed me like he meant to burn the memory into my skin.

If that kiss was any indication of what is to come…

My cheeks flush hot, and I squeeze my eyes shut, the image vivid and thrilling. What will it feel like to be naked in his arms? To feel that restrained, barely-leashed power fully focused on me? A shiver slips down my spine — part nerves, part excitement, part pure, breathless want.

But then doubt creeps in, curling its cold fingers around the edges of my thoughts. Is he thinking about me too? Or is this—to him—nothing but a transaction?

A political maneuver, a tactical alliance, another box checked off in his careful, calculated life? I hug the pillow tighter, biting my lip. We never said anything about sex being off the table in our arrangement, and I hope he understands it to be an invitation to take what I am offering.

Drawing a slow breath, I close my eyes and let the thought settle deep inside me, shaping itself into a quiet, fierce vow. I’ll find a way to make this year count. I don’t care how distant he tries to be or how tightly he wraps himself in walls and armor. One wayor another, I’m determined to win his heart. Not just as part of a bargain. Not just as a name on paper. But as his.

Fully, truly, and completely his.

9

Chapter 7

Zasha

Two weeks later

The house is silent and still, but I know that will change by tonight, once my bride moves in.

I stand in front of the mirror, the sleek black edge of it catching just a trace of morning light as I adjust my tie with steady hands.

I’m alone by choice.

I told Viktor and Lev not to swing by this morning; instead, I’d meet them at the venue. Told them — and myself — that there’s nothing sentimental about this marriage. There isn’t going tobe some brotherly bonding moment of them welcoming me into matrimonial bliss.

This is business.

I smooth the fabric of my dark suit, running a palm down the crisp line of the jacket. The cufflinks click softly as I fasten them. The silver catches the light, cold and polished.

Every movement is precise, sharp, controlled.

It has to be.

I reach for the holster, slipping it on under the jacket — more from habit than necessity, but the weight grounds me. Reminds me who I am, what world I belong to, and what this marriage is supposed to be. I meet my own gaze in the mirror, staring hard. The man looking back is carved from steel — sharp jaw, dark eyes, nothing soft, nothing warm.

Good. That’s how it should be. And yet, my jaw tightens as an image slices through my careful calm.

Mara.

The way she’d felt in my arms — soft, small, yet fierce, her body molding perfectly against mine when I pulled her close and kissed her outside under the stars.

I exhale hard through my nose, jaw clenching, and think to myself.

You better fucking remember what this union is all about.

This is politics. Alliance. Strategy. A marriage made to stitch two worlds together, nothing more. So, instead of thinking about how soft my bride feels, I think about the shipping corridor that is about to be opened up to the bratva. And the increased flow of cash that will come with it.

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