Page 84 of Bratva Bride
The estate's gates appeared through the windshield, and my body went rigid. I knew this place—had been here three weeks ago to negotiate the marriage terms. The same iron gates. The same security cameras. The same Gothic Revival mansion rising behind manicured gardens like something out of a Russian fairy tale gone wrong.
Except now there were twelve guards visible just inside the gates. Armed. Body armor under their suits. This wasn't security—this was a show of force. Viktor making sure everyone understood that his daughter was being returned to his complete control.
"Fucking theatrical bastard," Dmitry muttered, but he pulled up to the intercom as required.
The gates swung open with a mechanical groan that sounded like screaming metal. We rolled up the circular drive, gravel crunching under the tires with finality. Each rotation of the wheels took us closer to the moment I'd have to let her go, and my hands started shaking—actually shaking, like some kind of withdrawal.
Viktor appeared on the front steps before we'd even fully stopped. Charcoal suit, silver tie—the same fucking outfit from the Council meeting. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, radiating the particular satisfaction of a man who'd won everything.
Behind him, more guards. His lawyer. Someone with a medical bag who made my stomach turn—the doctor for that examination he'd threatened, probably. All of them arranged like a reception committee for a prisoner transfer.
Because that's what this was.
"Two minutes," I told Anya, my voice breaking on the words. "Two minutes and then we have to—"
"I know." She was already reaching for her bag, the one Clara had packed with a few essentials. Her movements were mechanical, practiced. She'd done this before, I realized. Packed for captivity. Prepared for a return to prison.
The guards surrounded our SUV before we could exit. One of them knocked on Anya's window with false politeness, indicating she should get out. I reached for her hand, needing one last moment of contact, but she was already opening the door.
The inspection happened right there in the driveway. Viktor's men went through her bag with clinical efficiency while we all watched. Clothes. Toiletries. Her laptop, which they confiscated immediately—"For the investigation," the guard said with a smile that made me want to break his teeth.
Then they found Marina and Peanut.
The guard held up the stuffed whale first, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "What's this?"
"Personal items," Anya said quietly, reaching for Marina.
But Viktor had descended the steps, and his smile when he saw the stuffed animals made my hands clench into fists.
"Still playing with toys, detka?" His voice carried that particular blend of affection and condescension that only parents could achieve. "At twenty-six? This is what the Volkovs reduced you to?"
He took Marina from the guard, examining the whale like it was evidence of a crime. Which to him, it probably was. Evidence that his daughter had found comfort outside his control. Evidence that she'd been allowed to be vulnerable with someone else.
"These are mine," Anya said, and there was a tremor in her voice now. "They're—please, Papa. They're important to me."
Viktor studied her for a long moment, then handed Marina back with exaggerated care. "Of course, detka. We'll discuss your . . . regression issues . . . once you're settled."
The threat in those words was clear. Her vulnerability would be weaponized. Everything she'd found with us turned into evidence of instability.
The documentation came next. Transfer of custody papers. Witness statements. All of it handled by Viktor's lawyer with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before. I signed where required, each signature feeling like signing her death warrant.
"This is temporary," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The investigation will prove the marriage is legitimate. You'll have to return her."
Viktor's smile widened. "Of course. As soon as the investigation concludes. These things do take time, naturally. Months. Sometimes years. But I'm sure you understand—thoroughness is essential."
Years. He was telling me to my face that he planned to keep her for years.
I moved toward Anya, needing to hold her one more time, to tell her I'd fight for her, that this wasn't over. But Viktor's guards stepped between us with practiced precision.
"No contact during the investigation," one of them said. "Council orders."
"One goodbye," I demanded. "I'm her husband. One fucking goodbye."
Viktor tilted his head, considering, then nodded magnanimously. "Thirty seconds. Supervised."
The guards parted just enough for me to reach her, but stayed close enough to intervene. I pulled Anya against me, trying to memorize everything—the way she fit against my chest, thescent of her hair, the tremor in her shoulders that said she was fighting not to break down.
"I'll get you back," I whispered against her hair. "I swear to god, Anya, I'll get you back."
