Page 24 of Bratva Bride
So why did it feel like losing?
Alexeididn'tknock.Henever did—pakhan privilege, or maybe just older brother prerogative. The elevator chimed and my brother filled the doorway like a three-piece suit wrapped around controlled violence.
I'd been working at the dining table, laptop open to legitimate construction contracts that needed review. Anya had claimed the sofa hours ago, her own laptop balanced on her knees, fingers flying across the keyboard with the kind of focus that suggested she was doing real work. Not shopping or social media—actual work that required her full concentration. I hadn't asked what. Figured she'd tell me if she wanted to.
But the moment Alexei appeared, she went rigid.
The change was instant, total. Her fingers stopped moving. Her breathing shifted—I could see it from across the room, the way her chest rose and fell faster, shallower. Her laptop screen reflected in the windows, and I watched her save whatever she was working on with three quick keystrokes before her hands moved to her lap, clenched into fists.
She knew what Alexei was. What he represented.
"Ivan." My brother's voice carried that particular tone he used for family business—warm enough to sound personal, cold enough to make it clear this wasn't a social call. His ice-blue eyes scanned the space, cataloging details the way he always did.Anya on the sofa. Me at the table. The distance between us. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"You are," I said, but without heat. Alexei interrupted. That was his function as pakhan—to insert himself wherever he deemed necessary, regardless of convenience.
He smiled slightly, acknowledging the truth of it, then turned his attention to Anya. She'd stood without my noticing, a defensive posture that put the sofa between her and my brother. Her face had gone blank—not calm but empty, the same expression she'd worn when her father had delivered her. Survival mode. The mask that said she'd vacated her body and left only the shell behind.
"Anya." Alexei moved into the space with that confidence that made men instinctively submit, that had lesser pakhan offering territory just to avoid his attention. He meant it kindly—I knew my brother, knew he was protective of family, would never deliberately hurt a woman under Volkov protection. But Anya didn't know that. She saw what everyone saw first—a bratva boss who'd killed more men than he could probably count, who controlled half of Brooklyn through a combination of legitimate business and calculated violence.
She saw her father.
Maybe that’s what she saw in me.
"I wanted to check on my future sister," Alexei continued, and the words should have been reassuring. Should have signaled that he considered her family already, that she'd have his protection the moment she married me. "Make sure you're settling in. The wedding is in two days. Saturday. I trust Ivan has explained the ceremony?"
"My father did. He was very thorough," Anya said, her voice flat as winter ice. Every word precisely articulated, no emotion, no inflection. The kind of speech pattern that came from years of careful control.
Alexei nodded, satisfied, then moved closer. Anya's hands gripped the back of the sofa, knuckles white against the charcoal fabric. I started to stand—instinct screaming that she was about to bolt—but forced myself to stay seated. She was an adult. Could handle a conversation with my brother. Didn't need me hovering like an overprotective—
"We need to ensure you understand your role in our organization," Alexei said, his tone shifting to business. Not unkind, just matter-of-fact. The way he'd discuss a new acquisition or a strategic partnership. "The Morozov intelligence you possess will be valuable."
Anya's breathing had gone from fast to nearly invisible. Her chest barely moved. Her face could have been carved from marble.
"Your linguistic abilities will also prove useful," Alexei continued, oblivious to or ignoring her distress. "We have operations in multiple countries. Having someone who can translate, decrypt, analyze communications—it's an asset we've needed for years."
Asset. The word hung in the air like a curse.
"We'll need to debrief you after the wedding," Alexei said. "Get a full accounting of what you know, what you have access to. But I want you to understand—you're family now. We protect our own. Your father's reach ends at our territory line."
Anya's laptop closed with a snap that echoed off the brick walls. The sound was sharp, violent, completely at odds with the careful control she'd maintained on her face.
"I understand perfectly," she said, and her voice had gone from flat to crystalline. Cold enough to freeze. "I'm a tool you've acquired. A decoder who comes with a marriage license. Very efficient."
Alexei's eyebrows rose slightly—surprise that she'd interpreted his words as transactional rather than protective. "That's not—"
"My father treated me like an asset for twenty-six years," Anya interrupted, and there was something raw in her voice now, something that cut through the control. "Kept me locked up, used my skills, reminded me daily that my only value was what I could provide. And now I've been transferred to new ownership with the same expectations. At least he was honest about it."
I moved without conscious thought. One moment I was at the table, the next I was between them—body angled to shield her from Alexei's presence, hands at my sides but ready. Ready for what, I didn't know. My brother wouldn't hurt her. But my body had made a decision my mind was still catching up to.
"Alexei." My voice came out harder than I'd ever used with him. Hard enough that his eyes sharpened, focused on me with the kind of attention that meant I'd surprised him. "She's not an asset. She's my wife."
Not my wife yet—the wedding was two days away. But the claim was there in my tone, in my stance, in the way I'd positioned myself between them like I had any right to protect her from family.
"Of course," Alexei said slowly, and I could see him recalculating, reassessing. "I apologize if I—"
But Anya had already moved. She'd circled wide around us both, giving Alexei the maximum possible distance, her laptop clutched against her chest like armor. Her face was still that terrible blank mask, but I could see her pulse hammering in her throat, could see the slight tremor in her hands that said she was holding on by force of will alone.
"Excuse me," she said to neither of us in particular. "I need to—excuse me."
