Page 25 of Bratva Bride
Then she was walking toward the guest room, not running but moving with rigid control that was somehow worse. The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded like a cell door locking.
Alexei and I stood in the sudden silence, my heartbeat too loud in my ears. I'd just challenged the pakhan. Hadn't raised my voice or made threats, but the implication had been clear—back off. She's mine. Don't touch.
"You care about her," Alexei said finally. Not a question.
"She's terrified." I forced myself to turn away from the closed guest room door, to face my brother. "She's been treated like property her entire life. And you just—"
"I understand." He held up one hand, cutting off my building anger. "I handled that poorly. I was thinking strategy, not psychology. Clara would have my head if she'd heard me."
Clara. His own wife, who he'd taken from similar circumstances, who'd taught him that bratva brides needed more than just protection and resources. They needed to be seen as human.
"The Morozov intelligence is valuable," Alexei continued, his voice quieter now. "But you're right. She's family first. The rest can wait until she's ready. If she's ever ready."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My hands were shaking slightly—adrenaline from the confrontation, from watching Anya shut down, from the overwhelming urge to go to her room and make sure she was okay.
"Clara wants to meet her. After the wedding. When she's had time to settle." He moved toward the elevator, then paused. "Ivan. You stood up to me just now. Called me on my bullshit."
"She needed someone to stand up for her."
"Yes," Alexei agreed. "She did. And you were right to do it." He pressed the elevator call button, the soft chime soundinglike a dismissal. "But brother—if you care about her that much already, you need to be careful."
I nodded.
The elevator doors opened. Closed. Alexei disappeared.
And I stood alone in my penthouse, staring at a closed guest room door, wondering if I'd just made everything better or infinitely worse.
Thebridalboutiqueoccupieda converted townhouse in Tribeca, the kind of place where appointments were made three months in advance and price tags didn't exist because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it. Margot—the owner and apparently the only person trusted to dress bratva wives—had let us jump the queue. Special accommodation for the Volkov family. Discretion guaranteed.
Anya sat on a velvet settee in the private viewing room, her hands folded in her lap, wearing the carefully blank expression she'd perfected over the last few days. She'd barely spoken since Alexei's visit yesterday. Had emerged from the guest room for dinner, eaten in silence, retreated immediately after. This morning she'd been in the Eames chair again when I woke, reading different book, chewing on a different sleeve. I'd made coffee, she'd accepted it with a quiet "thank you," and we'd existed in separate orbits until it was time to leave for this appointment.
I'd made the appointment thinking I was doing the right thing. Giving her the full experience. The kind of wedding dress shopping that normal brides got—champagne, multiple options, the moment where she'd see herself in white and feel something other than dread. But watching her sit there, spine straight, face empty, I was starting to think I'd miscalculated.
"Miss Morozova," Margot said, emerging from the back with a garment bag that probably cost more than most people's cars. "I've selected several options based on Mr. Volkov's description. I think you'll be very pleased."
Anya's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The Morozova instead of Morozov—feminine form of her father's name, but still her father's name. Still claiming her as his property even here, even now.
"I'm sure they're lovely," she said, her voice carefully modulated. Pleasant. Empty.
Margot unzipped the garment bag with reverence, revealing something that looked like it belonged in a cathedral. Vera Wang, I recognized the design from the research I'd done. Layers of silk organza and hand-beaded lace that caught the boutique's soft lighting and threw it back like captured stars. A full skirt that would require three people to carry. A train that would trail behind her like a white shadow. A neckline so ornate with crystals and beading that it looked like armor made of light.
Forty-five thousand dollars, according to the discreet research I'd done last night. A dress designed to make statements, to display wealth, to show everyone watching that the bride was valuable property being transferred between powerful families.
Anya went pale.
Not dramatically—just a slight draining of color from her cheeks, a tightening around her eyes.
"It's very . . ." she started, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "It's beautiful."
The lie was perfect. Her voice steady, her expression pleasant, nothing that would tell Margot she was screaming inside. But I heard it anyway. Heard the terror underneath the performance.
"Would you like to try it on?" Margot asked, already moving to unhook the dress from its special hanger.
"I—" Anya's hands clenched tighter. "If that's what—"
"You hate it," I said quietly.
Her eyes snapped to mine, surprise breaking through the careful control. Like she couldn't believe I'd noticed. Like she'd expected me to accept the performance the way everyone else in her life probably had.
