Page 18 of Kidnapped & Bred By The BRATVA
And just like that, I am no longer Olivia-the-daughter, Olivia-the-bargain, Olivia-the-bride-who-never-was.
I am Olivia Vasilieva.
Roman’s wife.
He pulls me close, his hand firm at my back. “It’s done.”
The brothers raise their glasses. Clara smiles at me with quiet warmth. The air hums with approval, with something close to celebration, but all I can feel is him.
Roman leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “Now you’re truly mine.”
A shiver runs through me, not of fear but of certainty.
Because I am.
And I don’t want it any other way.
Roman
The judge arrives just after dawn.
We don’t use churches or priests. Not for something that matters. A Bratva marriage is witnessed by family, by blood. The judge is just a signature to keep the world from interfering.
I stand beside Olivia as the papers are checked, stamped, and set before us. She sits straight-backed in the little black dress I made her wear, her hands folded neatly on her lap. But I can feel her pulse racing through the air between us, and I can smell her nervousness, sharp, sweet, laced with something else.
Desire.
It coils in my gut, threatens to break my control, but I force myself to wait. Not here. Not yet.
The judge doesn’t linger, he knows better. When he leaves, it’s done. Irrevocable.
Olivia is mine in the eyes of the law, as well as the Bratva.
The rest of the house stirs with life. The wives gather in the kitchen, children at their feet. Isabella rests a hand on her rounded belly as she chats with Sarah and Clara, the little ones stumbling between them, their laughter bouncing off marble floors.
Olivia watches with wide eyes, curiosity flickering across her face. She’s never seen this before. Family not bound by fear,women who aren’t treated like they are in the way, toddlers who laugh and play without looking over their shoulders.
I watch her watching them.
She belongs here. Even if she doesn’t believe it yet.
Mikhail presses a plate into her hands, a thick slice of bread and cured meat. She startles, but takes it. The wives coax her into sitting with them, their chatter softening her edges. For a moment, she looks like she belongs among them.
It should soothe me. It doesn’t.
Because all I can see is that dress.
The way the cut emphasises her figure, clinging to her breasts, to the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. The way it rides up when she sits, baring pale thighs I already know the feel of. My cock hardens instantly, painfully, and my patience frays.
I slam back a shot of vodka to keep from dragging her upstairs like a savage. It doesn’t help. My brothers rib me with smirks and quiet laughter, but I barely hear them.
She is too perfect, too tempting, and I can’t wait another second.
I cross the room, my shadow falling over her. She looks up, startled, bread halfway to her mouth.
“Eat later,” I growl, yanking the plate from her hands and setting it aside.
Her cheeks flush, lips parting. “Roman—”
