Page 27 of Bratva Bride
But, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t look like this was the worst day of my life. Far from it. I looked good. Mostly, it was the dress. Simple ivory silk, nothing fussy or over the top. Clean lines that whispered romance instead of screaming ‘look at me!’. For three seconds—I counted them—I looked like a bride who'd chosen this. Like a woman who wanted to marry Ivan Volkov.
The church’s bridal suite screamed ‘last-minute conversion.’ It was probably a converted office whose walls had been painted cream. Cheap garlands of fabric flower-petals hung from the ceiling, trying to camouflage how tired and unromantic thespace was. A full-length mirror with a gilt frame that didn't quite hide the mounting brackets underneath reflected me back. There was the faint smell of mothballs.
Nope. This was not how I pictured my wedding morning.
“You can do this,” I whispered to myself. “You can get through this. Keep surviving.”
I almost made myself believe. Then the door opened without a knock, and my father walked in.
Viktor Morozov closed the door behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a cell door locking. His pale blue eyes—my eyes—scanned me from head to toe. Assessing. Calculating.
"Simple," he said finally. The word carried disappointment like a weight. "Too simple. I expected you'd choose something more . . . impressive. The Volkovs will think I gave them damaged goods."
My fingernails found my palms. Four crescents of pain. Sharp enough to ground me.
"Ivan chose it," I lied.
The words came out steady. Practice made perfect. Twenty-six years of lying to my father about what I thought, what I felt, what I wanted. This was just one more performance.
His eyebrow lifted slightly. "Did he?"
"Yes." I kept my gaze on my reflection, not on him. Easier to lie when I wasn't looking directly into eyes that could read me like one of my encrypted files. "He said it suited me."
"Hmm." Viktor moved closer, and I watched him approach in the mirror. Predator closing on prey. "I suppose that's something. If he's already making decisions about your appearance, he's establishing ownership. Good."
Ownership. The word sat in the air between us like smoke.
He stopped directly behind me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Suffocating. His hands came up toadjust my veil—the simple tulle that matched the simple dress—and his fingers were rough against my hair.
"You look acceptable," he said, arranging the fabric with movements that were almost violent in their precision. Tugging here. Smoothing there. Each touch a reminder that my body belonged to him until the moment it was transferred to Ivan. "Modest. Appropriate for a virgin bride. Though that won't last much longer."
My breath caught.
"Remember what I said in the car," Viktor continued, his voice conversational. Pleasant, even. Like we were discussing the weather. "This marriage must be consummated tonight. The treaty requires proof."
Proof. My mind immediately went to the historical precedent. Bloodied sheets displayed for witnesses. Medical examination. Some barbaric tradition that powerful families still observed because tradition mattered more than humanity.
"If you fail—" he started.
"I won't," I interrupted. The words scraped my throat raw.
His hands stilled on my veil. In the mirror, I saw his expression shift. Something almost like pleasure at my interruption. Like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for an excuse.
"You won't?" He turned me to face him, hands gripping my shoulders through the silk. "You won't what, Anya? Won't fail? Won't embarrass me? Won't prove to be the defective, broken thing I've always known you were?"
Each word was a slap. Precise. Aimed to wound.
"I'll—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, forced it steady. "I'll do what the treaty requires."
"Good." His grip tightened until I felt bruises forming. "Because if you fail, if Ivan Volkov sends you back to me untouched, if the marriage isn't consummated and verified, remember, I will kill you myself."
My knees wanted to give out. My body wanted to collapse, to fold in on itself, to make myself so small he couldn't see me anymore. But I locked my legs, forced myself to stand straight, met his pale blue eyes with my own.
"I understand," I whispered.
"Good girl." He released me abruptly, and I stumbled slightly, caught myself on the edge of the settee. "Now fix your face. You look like you've been crying, and we can't have that. Brides should look happy."
He moved toward the door, straightened his jacket, checked his reflection one final time. Satisfied with what he saw.
