Page 19 of Ruthless Bratva's Forced Virgin
I hated it with a thoroughness that had nowhere to go.
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The ceremony, if it could be called that, happened at 8pm.
In the Manor’s formal sitting room, Anya was introduced to me briefly as Mikhail’s youngest sister and the family’s legal representative . She stood with a document folder and the expression of a person doing their job conscientiously while privately having thoughts about it she wasn’t sharing.
She had Mikhail’s coloring but none of his severity, and she looked at me once when she handed me the pen with something in her eyes that was not quite apology but was adjacent to it. It wasn’t much comfort to me. Nothing was any comfort to me at all.
Alexei was there, the financial brother, introduced by Katerina in a corridor, charming in the particular way of people who used charm professionally and never quite turned it off. He shook my hand and said something in Russian to Mikhail that made Mikhail’s jaw tighten and made me wish I spoke the language.
Dmitri, the youngest brother, leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed and looked at the proceedings with the alert entertainment of someone watching something they expected to become interesting.
I signed where Anya indicated. My hand was steady. I noted this with something distant and abstract, the way you noted details when the larger thing was too enormous to look at directly.
Mikhail signed beside me. His signature was what I would have expected—controlled, minimal, nothing wasted.
“That’s the last one,” Anya said.
I looked at the page. At my name beside his. At the date at the bottom, which was today’s date, which meant that today wasthe day I had become Elena Golovina without a white dress or flowers or anyone in the room who was there for my sake.
Mikhail’s hand touched my lower back—barely, the lightest possible contact, a guidance rather than a hold. “Come,” he said.
The family drifted. Katerina said something to Alexei in an undertone. Dmitri disappeared through a side door. Anya closed her folder and met my eyes once more, and whatever was in her expression was complicated enough that I couldn’t read it and was too exhausted to try.
“You’ll have your own rooms,” he said quietly as we stopped moving. “You’ll have access to the grounds and the staff. You are not a prisoner here, Elena.”
“But I can’t leave.”
“Not safely. Not yet.”
I looked at him. At the face I’d been trying not to think about for two weeks, closer now than the desk had allowed. There was a faint tension at his jaw.
I thought about the debt file on his desk and Anya’s complicated expression and the document with my name on it, and I thought about the envelope still sitting under a sweater in an apartment I apparently couldn’t return to.
“You don’t get to decide you’ve protected me and call it even.”
“I don’t.”
I looked at him again for a long moment. At the man who had stood between me and a car door in an alley and then left mealone in a hotel room and then watched me from a dark booth and kissed me in a service corridor and was now my husband in the legal and binding sense of a word I was still processing.
The fear was still there. So was the fury. And underneath both of them, present and inconvenient and refusing to be put in a closed room, was the thing I had been least prepared for.
The way I felt when he looked at me like this. Like I was the only variable in the room that had turned out to matter. I turned away before it showed on my face.
I had gotten a Bratva husband and a manor in the desert and a debt I hadn’t agreed to, traded for a protection I hadn’t asked for, and the most infuriating part—the part I pressed down hard and refused to examine with any directness—was that standing next to him in that ruined, strange, terrible evening, I felt safer than I had in months.
I did not know what to do with that.
Chapter Six — Mikhail
I had hosted several receptions at the Golovin manor in over a decade.
Birthdays and funerals and the particular celebrations that existed in my world as neither. The kind of gatherings that announced things, that drew lines, that communicated in the language of presence and proximity what could not be stated directly in polite company. I knew how to move through them. I knew which man needed to be greeted first and which needed to wait, which conversation required my full attention and which required only its performance, how to read a room in thirty seconds and understand exactly where the weight was distributed and where it was likely to shift.
But I prepared for this one differently.
Not in the visible ways. The suit was the same quality, the preparations followed the same controlled sequence.
