Page 1 of BRATVA'S Killer Bride
Sienna
Two huge men lead me down a corridor lined with mirrors. Each one catches the shimmer of my dress and throws it back at me. White tulle, white lace, white pearls. I don’t look at myself; I don’t want to see the girl whose father agreed to this. It feels too much like I’m watching myself being led to my own slaughter.
The air smells of cigar smoke and lilies, the scent of celebration already curdling and turning sour. Somewhere behind me, the music is fading, the laughter dissolving into murmurs.
Andrey Leskov waits at the end of the hall, wide, squat shoulders filling the doorway. His smile shows too many teeth, his eyes already glassy with drink. The rumours rise in my mind like ghosts: the escorts who vanish after spending time with him. The wife who “stopped breathing during the night.” They called it an accident. But the horrified whispers made their way to my ears, and I believe them over the party line.
He likes it when they can’t breathe.
I slide a smile on my face that I know doesn’t reach my eyes as I fist my hands, digging my nails into my palms to keep me from trying to bolt. I focus on the steel tucked against my thigh. I’ve had to fight the urge to touch it all day, the need to reassure myself it’s still there despite feeling the metal warm against my skin. He looks at me and sees layers of lace and tulle andobedience, and I try to slow my pulse, terrified it might give me away. That I’m not just softness and curves. I’m as sharp as the knife I’m hiding.
He takes my arm. His grip is damp. His combed-over hair, limp with sweat, sags from his scalp, and his shirt buttons are straining against the girth of his swollen belly. I can see tiny purple veins criss-crossing high on his doughy cheeks from years of alcohol and over-indulgence. His eyes flicker over me as he wets his lips, a slow stroke of his thick tongue as his gaze holds on my breasts. By some miracle, I manage to suppress the shudder that twists up my spine.
“Come, my beautiful bride,” he says. His breath smells of champagne and something bitter. “Tonight, we begin a dynasty.”
I nod, because nodding is safer than speaking. The guards take their posts outside the door and bow their heads as we pass. When it closes behind us, the click of the lock sounds final.
The suite is obscene. Crystal decanters lined up on a bar, velvet curtains that dominate the room, a bed big enough to get lost in. The light is too gold, and instead of the opulence intended, it bathes the room in dingy shadows.
He drops his jacket on the floor, loosens his tie. “You look frightened,” he says, amused. “Don’t be. I like them soft the first night.”
He likes it when they can’t breathe.
I want to speak, to say something coquettish and coy like;I just never imagined being in a room with a man as powerful as you…But my heart is hammering inside my throat, and I know I’d trip over the words. Besides, I’m not sure he is drunk enough to see through the lie, and I can’t risk him realising what I’m going to do.
I move toward the window, pretending to admire the city lights. My pulse counts the seconds too fast. My brain goes over the plan. My lungs try to breathe slowly, but I’m beginning to feel the first flush of panic rising up the back of my neck, making my skin feel too tight.
Keep it together. Any minute now.
He talks as he undresses, about power, about family, about how lucky I am that he has chosen to put his seed in me. To breed me. Each word scratches against my brain. When he steps behind me, the room tilts. I can smell his sweat, sickly sweet. I can hear the slow rasp of his breathing and a low whistle that comes from his nose with every exhale.
I turn to face him and lift my leg onto the plush stool beside me, offering him a shy smile as I lift my skirts.
“That’s it,” he says, fisting his limp, pink cock. A repulsive slopping sound emanates from the motion, and I have to fight the urge to gag. “Nice and slowly, for me…” he grunts a little, from frustration or exertion, I’m not sure. I lean forward a little, hoping the flash of my cleavage will keep him distracted while I retrieve the small blade held in place by elastic and lace. His eyes are shiny as he reaches for the front of my dress and pushes a thick, meaty finger between my breasts. He begins to pant, his cock still small and soft, his face changing to angry lines as he begins to yank at the front of my dress.
I lose my balance as he pulls me forward and panic grips me as my brains screamsit’s now or never. I slide the knife from the garter and send up a silent prayer to whatever God might be up there.
Then…quiet. Calm. The kind that comes just before a storm.
My arm slices through the air as the blade makes contact with his neck. He still has one hand wrapped around his pitifully softdick and the other hooked in the front of my dress when his expression turns from angry hunger to confused shock.
I press hard and lean into it, a spray of blood catching me as it spurts from the wound. There’s no time to consider the sticky warmth as I pull back and around, carving open his throat. A bubbling sound emerges from the dark red mess as he sinks to his knees. The look of shock on his face as his hand drops from the front of my dress and lifts to his neck is one I’ll never forget. I’ll relish it. I’ll celebrate this moment for every woman he ever killed, and for every woman he would have.
When his eyes go dull and the last gurgle fades without being chased by another, I’m certain he is dead. I look away from him and catch sight of myself in yet another fucking mirror. Only the white isn’t white anymore.
I swallow hard and take a breath.
This is who I am now.
I had no choice because I sure as shit wasn’t going to let this pathetic man put his useless dick inside me and squash the life from me becausehe likes it when they can’t breathe.
Fuck that.
The door slams open, and I jump, turning to face it with the knife still outstretched. A man steps through it like the whole world belongs to him. He takes in the scene, the body, the blood, me frozen beside it, poised for attack, and doesn’t flinch. His suit is dark, his face unreadable, his voice low.
“So,” he says, studying me as if I’m a riddle. “Hisbridebeat me to it.”
I should scream. I should run. Instead, I meet his eyes.
