Page 11 of Dark Bratva Christmas
I stand up, nearly knocking the stylist over as I approach the wedding dress. “What the hell is this? Why the hell am I putting on a wedding dress?”
“Don't waste time asking obvious questions,” Raisa sighs, holding the dress up to me. “You've lost weight, haven't you?”
She shakes her head and walks toward the door, and leaves. I promptly turn around and look for some kind of help from Helena or the stylist, but neither of them meets my eyes.
My entire body trembles and my eyes start to burn with potential tears. My throat goes dry and I know the next word I say is going to be nothing more than a croak.
Why isn't anyone here helping me? Where is my father? Where is my family?
The woman comes back into the room, dress in hand, alongside a tall Latino man neatly dressed in a nice suit.
Before I know what's happening, the woman in front of me is taking my towel off, and instructing me to step into the back of the wedding dress. I frantically cover myself so the guards at the door don't see and step in quickly, if only to avoid anyone seeing more of me than my late husband ever had.
The wedding dress is pulled up and zipped in the back before the woman and the man, who I now realize is a tailor, grab different parts of the fabric to make it form-fitting to my body.
If I weren't so horrified by the fact that I was being forced into a wedding dress, I might be able to look down and admire its beauty.
But it’s hardly possible right now.
It's form-fitting in the bodice, with long, cold shoulder sleeves that reach just below my wrist. The skirt of the dress hugs my curves, but loses the tight form fit at my thighs, where it pools around my feet. The gown is top-to-bottom lace with silky fabric underneath that feels like water against my skin.
I'm nearly speechless when I catch sight of myself wearing it in the mirror. It's absolutely stunning. It's not what I ever imaginedmyself walking down the aisle in, and it's nothing compared to the dress that I lovingly picked out for myself previously.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't love it.
I just absolutely don’t love that I have no idea what the fuck is happening to me right now.
The tailor stands behind me and grabs his tools to quickly take my measurements before literally sewing me into the dress. I watch as the loose parts around the bodice reform themselves to fit me like a second skin. Truthfully, I don't know how I'm going to get out of the dress, but I have more pressing things to worry about.
While he's sewing, the hairstylist grabs a few makeup brushes and does my eyes, cheeks, and lips. She mumbles about how she wants me to look natural and young, not wanting to cake my face with too much makeup. She tries to make me feel better by complimenting me, but it does nothing to calm my worries.
By the time everyone is done, they have me look at myself in the mirror, and I can barely rationalize what's happened. In the span of an hour, I've gone from bedhead to ready to walk down the aisle.
And I still don’t know why.
I turn to the tailor and the stylist, raising a brow. “Okay,nowcan someone tell me what is about to happen?”
They all exchange a look, as if I’m a fucking idiot.
“Obviously, I know it’s a wedding,” I point out the elephant in the room. “But I’d like to know—”
Before I can finish my thought, two men—the ones by the door—come barging in, grabbing each of my arms.
“Time to go, Petrov,” one of them mutters, his voice sharp and cruel. He lets out a sick laugh, and all I can do is give in to the painful pressure on my biceps.
They drag me out of the room, down the stairs, and then shove me into a blacked-out Escalade.
And there’s not an ounce of strength in me that’s enough to fight them. I’m not stupid enough to try, either. Instead, I resign myself to sitting right in between the two men in the backseat, my heart pounding heavily in my chest.
“Are we going back to my home?” I ask, eyeing the one to my left. He’s never looked at me once in this entire exchange, and now, I only catch a side eye from his jade irises.
“Zatknis'(Shut up).” The word is harsh, and normally, I’d have slapped one of my father’s men for ever uttering it toward me, but these guys…
They might hit back.
So, I just focus my attention out the windshield, instead.
It's a short drive and I try to figure out where we're going along the way, but I'm not used to this part of the city. I don't evenknowif this is technically a part of the city. I think we're in Kings Point, but I can't be sure. I hardly ever leave Manhattan.
