The Bratva’s Bride: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Henry, Jane

  I want her to stay. The sudden knowledge both startles and terrifies me.

  Where would she go? Who would take care of her? How can I wake to an empty bed without her by my side? In such a short time, she’s changed me.

  I realize I’ve paused and the room waits for the rest of my vows. Calina’s gaze holds mine, steady and true. I swallow and continue.

  “In wealth and in poverty.”

  My mind goes to my early days as a poverty-stricken child, eating thin soup and simple bread in the little hovel we called home. I will work night and day to ensure Calina is cared for. That she never has to experience the pangs of hunger, threadbare clothes, or cold creeping in through doorways because there’s no heat. I’ll take care of her every need, because when I make a promise, I mean what I say.

  “In sickness and in health,” I continue, “In happiness and in grief.” I imagine holding her on my lap while I wipe away her tears. In my imagination, she places her head on my chest and revels in my ministrations. So trusting. My hands tighten on hers as I finish my pledge to her, the words now ringing loud and clear in the assembly of people. And hell, I mean them. I fucking mean them.

  “From this day until death separates us.”

  She holds my gaze, her own voice clear and lovely, like a church bell.

  “And I take you as my husband, Demyan.” The way she says my name, her own special benediction, like she’s wrapped my name as a gift and presents it now to me, her clear, soft voice caressing the harsh letters and somehow softening them.

  “To be with you always.” She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t flinch. What does this mean? Is she a better liar than I thought, or does this somehow mean something to her?

  I’m not a romantic man. There isn’t a sentimental hair on my body, and yet… as she tugs our clasped hands to her heart, I imagine there’s sincerity in her words. “In wealth and in poverty, in sickness and in health.” Her voice catches. “In happiness and grief.”

  I wonder what she sees right now. What vision does she hold in her mind? Are the words something she states, like an actress’ lines?

  It isn’t until she’s nearly halfway through I realize she’s saying the words in Russian. She’s practiced them, memorized them in my native tongue, and for some reason, this is a gift she’s giving me. Something I will treasure and hold close to my heart. No matter where we go from here. No matter what happens next. She’s stated her vows in the words of my homeland, and I will not forget that. With a deep breath, she finishes her vows.

  “Do smerti.”

  Until death.

  And after the final words leave her lips, I say a silent vow only I can hear.

  I will not be the one to cause her death.

  She came to me as she is. I made her pay the debt she owes.

  And once she’s paid that debt in full… I will have to set her free.

  * * *

  Hours later, I have her alone, still dressed but her hair is limp and her face etched with fatigue. We danced and celebrated, ate and drank, and I’ve never been prouder of the woman by my side. With the grace befitting a queen, she graciously accepted well wishes and embraces. Amaranov and his wife were there, along with several other prominent politicians. Toasting us. Congratulating us. Amaranov had the nerve to try to bend in to give her a kiss, but I whisked Calina to me before he touched her and I’d have to kill him in front of everyone.

  We celebrated until well past midnight, and it’s nearly sunrise when I finally get her back to our room, alone.

  “You made me proud tonight,” I tell her. “So proud.” She danced and tossed back champagne as we toasted our union. She smiled and shook hands and was every bit the perfect Russian bride. I can’t think of anything we need more but to seal our vows by taking her, my cock already hard and throbbing as she stands before me clothed in ivory.

  “Come here,” I tell her. I stand in the bedroom… my bedroom. Ours. The lights are dim and the compound is quiet now. Guests have left and we’re all alone. A nervous excitement gathers in my chest, because tonight is the first time I’ll make love to her as my wife. We’ll consummate our marriage, and it feels like this was meant to be.

  Tonight isn’t about marking her or dominating her. Tonight, I want to make love to her.

  When she reaches me she puts her hands on my shoulders.

  “That was a lovely ceremony,” she says. “I have to admit, I enjoyed that. Even knowing…” her voice trails off and I’m glad she doesn’t voice what we both know hangs between us.

  Even though this was not consensual.

  Even though this is only part of the greater plan.

  Even though this won’t last because it can’t.

  Even though there is no love here.

  Is there?

  “I did, too,” I tell her. “I am proud to call you my wife.”

  She bows her head, hiding a little smile. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  I take my time undressing her, as if she’s a gift I want to savor. And she is. Christ, she is. All curves and luscious, creamy skin, so supple and yielding to my mastery over her. I slide her dress off her shoulders and help her step out of it, my own hands trembling a bit as if this moment actually means something.

  Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the ceremony, or the way the light catches her hair just so, but as I hold her there in front of me, this moment feels tender and right.

  Or maybe there’s magic in the vows we said, and they had a transformative effect on us. Because as I hold her, I know.

  I would do anything for this woman. I swallow, dismissing the notion as preposterous. How could she ever willingly stay with a monster like me?

  And does that matter now? How she feels about me almost doesn’t matter. I can’t control what she stirs in me any more than I can stop my heart from beating, my eyes from blinking, or the rising of the moon outside my window.

  I don’t want her to leave me. I don’t want her to be my prisoner. I want her to be the very special girl I call my own. She wears my ring and bears my name, and though it shocks the hell out of me, I realize now… that means something to me.

  Hell, it means everything to me.

  I hold her in my grasp, a little caged bird, but when I open that cage and set her free, she’ll fly away. And if I really love her… if she really does mean something to me and those vows I stated held truth… I’ll have to let her go.

  “Come here, sweet girl,” I whisper, even though she’s already within my grasp, her hands resting on my still-clothed shoulders. “Are you tired?”

  “A little,” she whispers. “But not so much that I…” she captures her full bottom lip between her teeth, and looks at me from beneath lowered lashes. My heart squeezes a little. “That I don’t have a little more energy left.”

  Her sweet, flirtatious words make me chuckle, and it feels so damn good to laugh again. I haven’t laughed for years until Calina. For years, since I’ve embraced the code of the Bratva, I’ve lived a somber life. But now… Calina brings me out into the light.

  I release her and begin to undress. I’ve long since shed my suit jacket, and now it’s just a matter of removing the stiff, formal clothing that separates me from her. I unbutton my shirt and shrug out of it, my eyes fixed on hers as she looks at me hungrily. Lustfully. I’ve brought her to climax and worked her body so hard and so long, her reaction sparks to life unbidden. She gathers a ragged breath and releases it slowly, swallowing when I toss my t-shirt off and stand bare-chested in front of her. I watch as her gaze roams over the markings on my body. She’s so fascinated by them, asking me questions about what they mean and how I got them.

  “Why are you so fascinated with my tattoos, little kisa?” I ask, while I unbutton my trousers.

  “Well, first,” she says with a quirky little smile. “They’re really, really hot.”

  I smile at that.

  “And also, I like that they each mean something.” I stand in nothing but my boxers now, and she take
s a step closer to me. Her fingernails are painted a pretty coral color, as soft as the sunrise. I watch as she traces the tattoos on my arms and neck. “Each one of these tells a story. They’re battle scars, if you will.” And to my surprise, she bends and places a kiss on the rose on my bicep.

  “Perhaps I should get another,” I whisper, caught in the power of this moment. Husband and wife, bared to one another and on the verge of consummating their marriage. “One for you, Calina.”

  Placing her hand on my cheek, she draws my gaze to hers. “I would like that,” she says with a teasing smile. “What would you get?”

  “A little kitten, perhaps.”

  Her lips part just before I capture them. Running my hands through her hair, I gently tug it until it cascades around her like black satin, fragrant and smooth, framing her petite face. I draw her close to me as we kiss, speaking words we can’t say out loud. Letting our bodies say what we can’t give voice to, how we’re more than captor and prisoner. That this night transcends the physical. That our vows hold weight.

  Her eyes flutter shut as mine do. She sighs into my mouth when my tongue sweeps hers, a surge of arousal and adrenaline coursing through me. My cock presses hard and tight at her belly. I groan when she grinds herself against me. I lift her into my arms as if she’s meant to be here, just like this, and her arms automatically encircle my neck, but we don’t stop kissing. We kiss with passion and ardor, as if this is our last night together, as I walk her toward the bedroom.

  I’ve ordered vases and vases of red roses be brought in in our absence.

  “The flowers,” she whispers. “A garden of roses.” When she looks at me, she tips her head curiously. “For us?”

  “For you,” I tell her. “My people value flowers, and vast quantities, to mark special occasions. These seemed fitting.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she whispers. “So pretty. I will always remember them.” I ignore the note of sadness in her voice and lay her down on the bed, silencing her by framing her body with mine and kissing her once more. I don’t hold her down or take her roughly. I do nothing but kiss her, anointing every inch of her body until she vibrates with need. I hold her to me while our lips speak passion and promise. I don’t want to let her go. Even an inch of space between us seems too much.

  I whisper sweet nothings in Russian, things she won’t understand, and I’m glad she doesn’t. They border on the dangerous edge of devotion I can’t risk her knowing.

  When I push myself into her, she arches her back and holds onto me with utter trust. We stay like that, holding one another, and chase our release as one.

  * * *

  I wake the next morning with her still asleep beside me, curled up and blissfully unaware of the phone that buzzes on the bedside table. She doesn’t even stir. I smile at the soft, damp tendrils of hair that curl around the nape of her neck when I answer the phone. No one calls me this early, not after a special night like I had, so I know it must be important.

  “Dem.” It’s Filip.

  I gently roll out of bed, careful not to wake my sleeping bride, and walk out of the room.

  “What is it?” I snap, still half asleep. “This better be fucking important.”

  “It is.” I hear Maksym cursing in the background, and I frown.

  “We found out who she called,” Filip says. “And before you do another thing, you need to know.”

  I freeze, the air in my lungs suspended. I say nothing, waiting for what I know I don’t want to hear.

  “It’s a man by the name of Glen Gustev. Lives in a little hovel outside of Moscow.”

  I curse, clenching the phone in my hand.

  “There’s more, Demyan. We have pictures of him and her. Recent ones. The two of them together. I’m sending you a picture now.”

  I look at my phone when the picture comes in. Calina… my beautiful, beautiful Calina… holding onto the arm of another.

  I turn to stare at the empty doorway. At the sleeping form of the woman who betrayed me.

  My wife, who belongs to another.

  Chapter 16

  I’m dozing in the most peaceful sleep I’ve had since I’ve come here, blissfully warm after the sweetest, most tender night I’ve had with Demyan yet. I roll over, reaching for him, and feel just warm sheets beside me. Opening my eyes, I look for him in the dimly-lit room but don’t see him. I blink in surprise when he stalks into the room.

  I sit up in bed, alarmed, and instinctively pull the bedsheets around my body, because the man who enters is not the gentle lover of the night before. Demyan’s eyes flash, his lips pulled into a thin, furious line. His cheeks flame red and his nostrils flare.

  “What?” I manage to say, just before he reaches me and yanks me out of bed by the hair. I scream at the tug along my scalp, more alarmed than hurt, though. I can feel his restraint even as his tremulous grip drags me out of bed and toward the little cell-like room that lies forgotten.

  “Demyan,” I plead, trotting to keep up with his angry, massive strides. But he says nothing. Instead, he leads me to the closet. I tremble, knowing what means of punishment he houses in that closet, but instead of a strap he retrieves a length of thick, gleaming chain. In silence, he snaps cuffs onto my wrists, attached to a collar at my neck, before he leads me by the cuffs to the large cage that sits unused in the corner of the room.

  Is this some sort of game? Now that I’m his, does he intend to use me like his little plaything? But there is no lust in his eyes, no seduction in his touch. Nothing but unfettered rage.

  My stomach twists in knots when I fruitlessly tug at the chain. “No!” I protest. “No, please, Demyan. Please, sir. Tell me what happened! Tell me what I did to deserve this!” My pleas choke into a sob as he kicks the door to the cage open and shoves me in, hands first. Cuffed, I can’t brace myself and clumsily fall on all fours atop a thin black cushion that covers the entire bottom of the cage. He clangs the door shut and I hear the ominous click of a lock. I turn to face him but it’s difficult, since there’s barely any room for me to move in here, and my movement’s restricted from lack of space and the cuffs. I have to crane my neck to look at him.

  “Demyan,” I say, crying freely now. Tears stream down my cheeks while I plead inwardly. Where is my tender lover from the night before? Where is the man who’s fiercely protective of me? And what has caused this rage to boil inside him again?

  “Please. What did I do? I was just sleeping. We had such a lovely night. I thought you…” But I can’t bring myself to say it.

  I thought you really cared for me.

  And then I know, as adrenaline courses through me and wrenches me out of a sleepy fog. He knows. He knows I made a call and he knows I’m not Calina. He knows this has all been a lie, that I’m not who I’ve said I am. He knows he married someone who bears a different name.

  I cling to the metal bars and watch in horror as he backs away from the cage, his beautiful, passionate eyes narrowed. “The cuffs and collar are to remind you that you belong to me. That you are my property. And because I cannot trust you.”

  His accent is thick as fog, he’s so angry, and I can hardly understand him with the pounding of blood in my ears. I begin to shake, full body tremors overtaking me. He curses in a stream of Russian so furious and heated I can’t decipher a word, then he looks back at me. “The cuffs are to save you from yourself so you do nothing stupid that would force my hand to punish you.” His voice raises in tempo and I crouch, pulling into myself because I can hear not only anger, but hurt in his tone, and it lacerates my heart. Even now, as he rages and fumes at me in a cage at his feet, it tears me apart to hear the way his voice cracks with pain. “The fucking cage is to save you from me!”

  I blink, stunned. He wants to hurt me and doesn’t trust himself not to. The cage is not mere punishment or degradation but to save me from what he would do to me in his anger.

  Turning on his heel, he goes to his room. I can barely see him, tugging on a pair of shorts before he leaves the
room. The door shuts with a clang. I crouch and listen. He’s gone.

  I’m all alone. More alone than I’ve ever been in my life. Married to a man who hates me. Wrenched apart from my sister. Friendless. Unloved.

  I close my eyes, trying to still the tears that will fall despite the effort I’m making to stop them, but I can’t. I lost everything when I came here. I gave up what little I had to save my sister, who never would have survived these men, this punishment. And I fell for it. I thought I actually meant something to him. I thought I actually mattered.

  But I have to work this out. I need to know what he knows, because it will impact what I do next. I have to keep my head on straight.

  So even though my heart feels as if it’s been wrenched in two… even though I long to weep until I have no more tears to shed… I compose myself as best I can. I draw in a deep breath and still my breathing.

  He didn’t hurt me. He chained and cuffed me to remind me he could, and so I wouldn’t… hurt myself?

  The cage is to save you from me.

  He’s furious and wants to hurt me, but doesn’t trust he won’t take it too far.

  Why? What happened?

  How did he discover I called Glen? Did he find Calina?

  What will his men do?

  If they find Calina… if they hurt her…

  I tug fruitlessly at the cuffs and chain, my own helplessness making anger rise in my chest.

  If they find Calina, I did this all for nothing. And if I did this all for nothing, then what? That makes him a liar and a cheat. That means he never intended to allow me to pay off my debt to him. Perhaps the purpose of a fucking cage is to teach me to submit. To temper defiance or suffer punishment like an animal. To be objectified and humiliated.