Page 31 of Bratva Bride
I managed a nod. Words felt too difficult.
"They're overwhelming," Eva agreed. "I cried through my first. Full panic attack halfway through the reception. Dmitry had to carry me out in front of everyone."
The admission surprised me. That Eva would confess weakness. That Dmitry would show that kind of care publicly. That any of this was real instead of the performance I'd been witnessing all day.
"You looked like you were about to bolt," Clara said, not unkindly. "I remember that feeling. That moment when you realize you can't keep the mask on for one more second."
She understood. They both understood.
"Ivan is a good man," Clara said quietly, her hazel eyes holding mine. "I know that probably sounds like bullshit right now. I know you're terrified. But he's not like your father. He won't hurt you."
I wanted to believe it. Had seen evidence of it—the key, the dress, the four-count breathing during the ceremony. But belief required trust, and trust required something I wasn't sure I had anymore.
"How do you know?" I heard myself ask. My voice came out rougher than intended. Raw.
"Because we've seen how he treats people," Eva said. "He cares. He’s no monster like some of them.”
"Nothing is private in this family," Clara said, reading my expression. "But that's not a bad thing. It means we see when someone needs help. When someone is struggling. When someone needs allies."
Allies. The word felt foreign. Dangerous, even. Everyone who'd ever claimed to be my ally had either used me or abandoned me. But Clara and Eva were looking at me with something that seemed like genuine understanding, and I was desperate enough to want to believe them.
"I don't know how to do this," I admitted quietly. "Trust people. Be part of something. I've been—" Alone. Isolated. Property. Pick the word that hurt least. "—on my own for a long time."
"I know what that's like," Eva said. She leaned forward, her lavender dress rustling softly. "Being so used to surviving alone that accepting help feels like weakness. Like if you let someone in, they'll just hurt you worse than if you'd kept them out."
Too accurate. I pressed my fingernails into my palms. Four crescents. Grounding.
"Dmitry took me off the street," Eva continued. "I had a price on my head.”
I knew all about it, of course. I’d helped analyze the information. “I was a liability that needed to be eliminated. But Dmitry brought me home instead. Put me in his safe house. And I spent weeks waiting for him to hurt me. To use me. To do what men in his position do to women like me."
Her voice was steady. Matter-of-fact. But I saw her hands clench in her lap.
"He never did," she said. "He fed me. Let me hide when I needed to. Gave me space to figure out who I was beyond survival. And when I finally trusted him enough to—" She stopped. Smiled slightly. "Well. He was patient. Is patient. Still is, on my bad days."
Patient. That word again. Ivan had used it too. But patience in my world had always been strategic. Waiting for the right moment to strike. For the asset to become valuable enough to use.
Clara was watching me with those sharp hazel eyes. "You're thinking we're either lying or deluded."
"I'm thinking you're both still here," I said. "Still married to men who are—" How did you politely say criminals? Killers? "—in positions of power. You can't leave. So you've found ways to make it bearable."
"You're not wrong," Clara said. No defensiveness. Just acknowledgment. "Alexei took me as collateral against my father's corruption. I was terrified. Spent the first week planning escape routes and assuming he'd force himself on me because that's what powerful men do to powerless women."
She leaned back in her chair. Her posture was relaxed, but I saw the steel underneath.
"He didn't," she said. "He gave me choices. Time. Space to decide if I wanted to stay or go. And when I finally chose him—chose this life—it was because I'd seen who he really was. Not the pakhan. Just Alexei, who reads to me when I can't sleep and carries me to bed when I fall asleep on the couch."
The image didn't fit. Alexei Volkov, the man who'd talked about debriefing me like I was an intelligence asset, carrying his wife to bed.
"I'm not saying they're good men," Clara continued. "They're criminals. They've hurt people. They'll hurt more people. But with us? With family? They're different. And Ivan is—" She paused, choosing words carefully. "—probably the best of them, honestly. The most controlled. The most careful about consent."
Consent. Another word that felt foreign in the context of arranged marriage.
"The Volkovs are still dangerous," Eva said bluntly. "Still violent. Still part of a world that will hurt you if you're not careful. But they're different than the Morozovs. Your father uses people and discards them. The Volkovs protect their own."
"You're their own," I said. "I'm—" What? New acquisition? Asset under evaluation? "—the enemy's daughter."
"You're Ivan's wife," Clara corrected firmly. "That makes you family. And family means something here."
