Chapter 6

Victor

I FEELa jolt of electricity as our lips meet, that kiss searing through me like a fucking branding iron. Laura’s mouth is soft, pliant, but there’s a hint of defiance in the way she presses back against me. It’s like she’s challenging me, daring me to push for more.

And fuck, do I want more.

I can feel my cock stirring, throbbing against the confines of my pants. It’s almost laughable, getting hard at the altar. But there’s something about this woman, something that sets my blood on fire and makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her off to the nearest secluded spot.

I want to bury myself in her, to feel her tight heat wrapped around me, to hear her moan my name as I make her come undone. I want to mark her, to claim her, to make her mine in every way possible.

But this is just the beginning. A fucking tease of what’s to come.

As we break apart, I catch a glimpse of something in Laura’s eyes—a flicker of heat, of desire, quickly masked beneath a veneer of cool composure. It’s enough to make my dick twitch, to send a fresh surge of blood southward.

I can’t believe the effect she has on me. I’ve had my share of women, more than I can count, but none of them has ever made me feel like this. Like I’m a fucking addict, craving my next hit.

I can’t take my eyes off her, even as the priest drones on, his words a distant buzz in my ears. Laura stands beside me, her spine straight, her head held high, the picture of a perfect Bratva bride. But I can see the cracks in her I, the way her lips twitch when the priest mentions love and devotion, the way her fingers flutter nervously at her sides.

I want to unravel her, to peel back the layers and discover the truth beneath. I want to know what makes her tick, what makes her moan, what makes her scream.

But that will have to wait.

“Thank you all for coming; we will see you at the reception tonight.” The priest’s words yank me back to the present, to the hundreds of eyes watching us, waiting for our next move.

Fuck.

As we step off the altar, now bound as husband and wife, a searing pain rips through my fucking shoulder. I feel the warm, sticky blood oozing through the bandage, but I’ll be damned if I let it show. Laura’s got my hand in a death grip, like she’s trying to keep me from falling on my fucking face.

The music’s blaring, some traditional Russian bullshit that grates on my nerves. Part of me wants to just grab Laura, throw her over my shoulder, and get the hell out of here. But I know I can’t. Not yet. I’ve got a role to play, a show to put on for the sake of my old man.

“Dyadya Victor!” Eli’s voice cuts through the noise, high-pitched and excited. I look down to see my little niece bouncing on her toes beside me, her eyes wide and shining. “You look like a prince!”

I can’t help but crack a smile at that.

More like a fucking court jester.

“Thank you,malyshka,” I mutter, but I ruffle her hair affectionately.

“Dyadya! Stop it, you’re messing up my hair!” Eli squeals, swiping at my hands. I grunt, feeling a twinge in my shoulder as I pull back, trying to hide the pain with a quick, tight-lipped smile.

Laura’s grip on my hand tightens, and she leans in close. “Victor, you’re bleeding,” she whispers urgently.

I shrug, ignoring the way the movement sends another jolt of pain through my body. “I’ve had worse.”

Eli tugs on my jacket, her little face scrunched up in concern. “Dyadya Victor, are you okay? Do you need a Band-Aid?”

I laugh despite myself. “I might need a little more than a Band-Aid, moye solnyshko. But don’t worry about me,” I assure Eli, masking the pain with a tight smile. I catch Ksenia’s eye as she approaches, her expression an icy mask. But beneath the cold exterior, I see a flicker of relief in her eyes, a subtle acknowledgment that her little brother is still standing.

I can’t help but feel a surge of gratitude toward my sister. When things went to shit and Igor reached out, Ksenia had already mobilized her team. Without her quick thinking and loyal men, I might not be here, playing the role of the happily married Bratva king.

“You nearly got your dumbass killed,” Ksenia hisses through clenched teeth, her voice low and harsh.

“Happy to see you too, sis,” I retort, my smirk more of a grimace as another wave of pain washes over me.

As we make our way to the church’s exit, Laura shuffles uncomfortably beside me. She’s talking, her words a faint murmur in my ear, but I notice her gaze darting away from an older man on her other side. I vaguely recognize him, but my attention is pulled away by the scene unfolding outside the church doors.

It’s like the underworld has converged on this holy place, a sea of black SUVs and suited bodyguards surrounding the perimeter. The devils have come to pay their respects, or more likely, to size up the new king and his queen.

“Congratulations, Dyadya Victor,” a deep voice rumbles, and I turn to see my nephew, Yuri, his hand outstretched.

At eighteen, he’s already an imposing figure, standing at six-foot-two with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw. But it’s his eyes that strike me—cold and calculating, just like his mother’s.

I clasp his hand, my grip firm despite the pain radiating through my arm. “Thank you, Yuri,” I say, my tone measured.

Ksenia turns to her son, her expression hard and cold. “Yuri, make sure your sister gets to the hotel first,” she instructs, her voice brooking no argument.

Yuri nods, his demeanor thawing slightly as he scoops Eli up into his arms. “Alright, little spy,” he says, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Did you complete your super-secret mission?”

Eli giggles conspiratorially, leaning in close to whisper in Yuri’s ear. “Yes! I snuck into Dyadya Victor’s room and put the special surprise in his pocket, just like we planned!”

Yuri’s eyes widen in mock astonishment. “No way! You managed to get past all those scary guards?”

“Yep!” Eli puffs out her chest proudly. “I’m sneaky like a ninja!”

“That’s my girl!” Yuri chuckles, giving her a high five. “Dyadya Victor will be so surprised!”

Eli claps her hands in delight, an impish gleam in her eye. “Do you think he’ll make that funny face when he finds it? The one where his eyebrows get all scrunchy?”

“Oh, definitely.” Yuri nods solemnly. “And we’ll be there to see it, right?”

“Right!” Eli agrees, bouncing excitedly in his arms.

As they descend the church steps, a phalanx of guards closing in around them, I catch a flash of red in my periphery.

Anastasia Petrova, the daughter of a notorious money launderer, glides toward us, her crimson lips curled into a predatory smile.

“Congratulations, Victor,” she purrs, her eyes raking over me with undisguised hunger. “I’m sure you and your lovely bride will be very happy together.”

Anastasia saunters up closer to me. She pushes her ample breasts forward, the low-cut neckline of her dress leaving little to the imagination. Her eyes linger on me, a predatory gleam in their depths.

“Oh, Victor, you poor thing,” she coos, reaching out to touch my bruised face. Her fingers ghost over my skin, a touch that’s far too intimate for my liking. “What happened to you?”

I catch her wrist before she can make contact, my grip firm but not painful. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I reply, my tone cool and dismissive.

Anastasia pouts, her lips glistening with some sort of gloss. She glances at Laura, giving her a once-over that’s both disdainful and calculating. “I’m sure your new wife was worried sick about you.”

Laura stiffens beside me, her fingers tightening around mine. I can feel the tension radiating off her, the unease and anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Oh, is she jealous?

Anastasia steps closer, her eyes fixed on Laura. “That dress is stunning, darling,” she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “It almost makes you look like you belong here.”

Laura meets her gaze head-on, a small, confident smile playing on her lips. “Well, I must belong here, seeing as I just married the man of the hour.”

Anastasia’s eyes narrow at the subtle jab, but Laura doesn’t back down.

A surge of pride rushes through me, and I can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth.

That’s my girl.

My chest swells with satisfaction. She’s already proving she’s not just some delicate flower but a woman with a backbone of steel.

Anastasia turns her attention back to me, running a hand down my chest. “You really should be more careful, Victor. If you had a wife who understood this life, maybe you wouldn’t find yourself in such dangerous situations.”

I sidestep her advance, causing her to stumble slightly on the church steps. She regains her balance quickly, but not before I catch a flash of irritation in her eyes.

“Thank you for your concern, Anastasia,” I say, my tone glacial. “But my wife is perfect for me.” The words surprise even me, and I catch a flicker of shock on Anastasia’s face. As I turn to Laura, I toss her a wink, seeing her eyes widen in equal surprise.

Suka! What’s wrong with me?

My brow creases slightly at my own boldness.

Just then, Ekaterina Smirnov appears at Anastasia’s side, tossing her platinum hair over her shoulder.

“Oh, Victor,” she simpers, “I heard about last night. You’re lucky to be alive.” She leans in conspiratorially. “You know, if you had a wife from the right family, with the right connections, you’d have all the protection you need. My father has men everywhere. Just something to think about.”

I feel my jaw clench, anger simmering in my veins. How dare she suggest I can’t protect what’s mine?

Ekaterina’s smile turns sly. “I’m sure your father would be so proud of your choice.”

The implication is clear—she thinks I’ve betrayed the Bratva by marrying an outsider.

“Well, he is,” my father declares, his voice cutting through the tension. He approaches us slowly, a living legend, the old king of the Bratva. His stride is still powerful, commanding, even with the cane in his hand.

A train of followers trails behind him, a display of the Morozovs’ unwavering influence. Doc stands next to my father, his face etched with exhaustion. I pity the guy, having to deal with the demands and whims of the Morozov family day in and day out. It’s a thankless job, but someone’s got to do it.

As my father nears, Anastasia and Ekaterina fall silent, their barbed remarks dying on their lips. They know better than to spew their venom in front of him.

“Son,” my father says, pressing a silver coin into my palm, “a blessing for you and your bride. Wealth and prosperity.”

He turns to Laura, his eyes softening. “Welcome to the family, my dear. You’ve married a good man. The Bratva takes care of its own.”

An unfamiliar emotion stirs in my chest at his words. Gratitude? Affection? I push it aside.

“Thank you, Papa.” I lean close, wrapping him in a hug. “Get the surgery,” I mutter in his ear. “No more delays.”

He pats my back, saying nothing. I know he heard me.

Laura watches our exchange, her expression softening, a gentle smile gracing her lips. It’s a stark contrast to the wariness and uncertainty that clouded her features just moments ago.

“Let’s go,” I say, taking her hand in mine. My thumb brushes over the ring on her finger, my mother’s ring. It looks right on her, like it was always meant to be there.

She nods, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. The simple action sends a jolt of desire straight to my groin.

Now that she’s my wife, I realize the possibilities are endless. I can have her whenever, wherever I want. The thought is intoxicating.

Suddenly, a photographer appears, breaking the moment. “A family picture?” he suggests, gesturing for us to pose together.

Laura’s body stiffens, her discomfort palpable. The man standing next to her, grinning from ear to ear, seems oblivious to her unease. I narrow my eyes, a surge of possessiveness washing over me.

“Smile, please,” the photographer urges, focusing his lens on Laura.

She remains frozen, her smile strained and artificial. I can practically feel her desperation to escape, to melt away from this suffocating situation.

Unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I turn to the man, my voice laced with barely concealed disdain. “Who the fuck are you?”

He blinks, taken aback by my bluntness, but quickly recovers. “I am Laura’s father.”