Page 29 of Bratva Bride
Then Ivan's thumb moved.
Gentle pressure against the inside of my wrist where the silk cord bound us together. Press. Hold. Release. Wait. Press. Hold. Release. Wait.
Four counts.
He was giving me the rhythm. Breathing mapped onto my pulse point. In for four as he pressed. Hold for four as he maintained pressure. Out for four as he released. Wait for four in the space between.
I focused on his thumb. On the steady, measured pressure that said he saw me. Saw that I was drowning. Saw that I needed help. And instead of letting me drown, he threw me a rope made of touch and timing.
Press. Hold. Release. Wait.
My breathing steadied. Matched his rhythm. Synchronized with the silent conversation happening through our bound hands.
I looked up and met his eyes. Gray like winter storms. But calm. Steady. Anchoring me when everything else spun.
Thank you, I tried to say with my expression.
The priest asked another question. Something about forsaking all others. About cleaving only to each other. About the permanence of the bond we were forming.
"I do," Ivan said. His thumb pressed once more. Four counts.
My turn. The moment that would seal everything. Make me Anya Volkova legally. Property transferred from father to husband. Tool acquired by a new owner.
But Ivan's thumb pressed again. Patient. Steady. Reminding me to breathe.
And I remembered: he'd given me a key. He'd let me choose a dress. He'd stood between me and Alexei. He'd told me the sex could wait until I was ready.
Maybe this didn't have to be an ending. Maybe it could be something else entirely.
"I do," I whispered.
The words tasted like surrender and hope mixed together. Like dying and being born simultaneously.
The priest smiled. "Then by the power vested in me by the Orthodox Church, I pronounce you husband and wife."
He began unwrapping the silk cord, and I felt Ivan's hand start to slip away. But his thumb pressed one more time before we separated completely.
The church erupted in applause. Volkovs and Morozovs clapping together, probably the only moment of unity they'd share all day. The organist began something triumphant. The priest gestured for us to face the congregation as man and wife.
Ivan's hand found mine again—no silk cord this time, just his fingers threading through mine—and we turned to face the hundred and forty-three witnesses who'd watched me cease being Anya Morozova and become Anya Volkova.
My father stood in the front row with that proud smile he wore when his plans came together. Clara and Eva smiled too, but theirs looked genuine. Hopeful.
I smiled back at the crowd. But underneath, where only Ivan could feel it, my pulse hammered against his thumb.
Thereceptionhallwastoo loud. Conversations bouncing off exposed brick walls. Laughter that sounded forced. Clinking glasses and scraping chairs and the four-piece band in the corner playing traditional Russian music. I sat at the head table with a smile painted on my face and my hands folded in my lap, feeling like a painting on the wall at a gallery. Look but don't touch. Valuable but fragile.
Edison bulbs strung overhead like captured stars, casting warm light that should have been romantic but just made my headache worse. White tablecloths. White roses. White everywhere, like they were trying to convince everyone this was pure, holy, something other than a business transaction.
Ivan sat beside me. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Far enough that it didn't look presumptuous. He'd barely spoken since we arrived, just maintained that careful presence.
People approached in waves. Volkov soldiers first, assessing me with professional interest. The newest asset acquired. Investment that needed to prove its worth.
"Congratulations, brother," they'd say to Ivan, barely glancing at me. When they did look, their eyes calculated. What skills did I bring? What intelligence? What value beyond the treaty?
Then Morozov soldiers, and their looks were different. Darker. Some resentment that I got to escape while they stayed behind, serving a pakhan they probably hated as much as I did. Some pity that I'd been traded like currency. Some calculation about whether I'd remain loyal to my birth family or transfer allegiance completely.
I smiled at all of them. Performed gratitude. Thanked them for coming.
