Page 19 of Scarred Bratva King

The corner of my mouth lifts. “I wouldn’t trust it to arrive with those incompetent assholes.”

Her laugh softens, and for a fleeting moment, the tension in the room eases. She studies me, her sharpness dulled by curiosity.

Her eyes meet mine, and something flickers there—reluctant acceptance, maybe, or at least a sliver of trust. It’s enough to make my chest ache, a sensation I refuse to name.

She leans back slightly, her fingers drumming against the armrest. “So, what now? Are you going to tell me this whole ridiculous marriage idea is your way of making up for leaving me alone without even telling me your name?”

“Something like that,” I admit, my tone dry. “Maxim Stepanov.”

“Veronica Bennett.”

“I know your name. Sixty days. That’s it.”

She studies me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And what happens after sixty days?”

“After sixty days, I’ll be Pakhan,” I reply. “Marco and Vito will be dead. This will all be over. For both of us. You can get on with your life.”

I see the flicker of fear she tries to hide. But then her chin lifts again, her stubbornness shining through. “I have terms.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “You have terms?”

“Yes, terms,” she says, crossing her arms again. “I want a bookstore. My own bookstore. And a place to live near it when this is over.”

I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips. “Anything else? Wine in the faucets?”

She narrows her eyes, clearly suspicious of how easily I agreed. “No, that’s it.”

“Good.” I extend my hand to her. “Then we have a deal.”

She hesitates for a moment, her gaze flicking between my hand and my face. Then, slowly, she reaches out and takes it. The moment her fingers touch mine, something sparks—sharp and electric, shooting straight through me.

Her eyes widen slightly, and I know she feels it too.

Our hands linger for a beat too long before she pulls hers back, her expression guarded once again. “Guess we’re doing this,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.

“Guess we are,” I reply. The storm in my chest rages on, but beneath it, something else stirs—something dangerous. “If this is going to work, you’ll need to follow my lead. No questioning me. No defiance. You’ll do exactly as I say, whenever I say it. Like a proper Bratva bride.”

Her eyes narrow, the spark of defiance flaring immediately. “Excuse me? You think you can boss me around for sixty days and I’ll just roll over and obey?”

I lean in, a smirk forming, sharp and dangerous. “Yes, Veronica. That’s exactly what I think. For this to look real, we need to play our roles. And my role is the husband who’s in control. Completely.”

“Control,” she echos, folding her arms across her chest. “What exactly are you planning to ‘control,’ Maxim? My schedule? My wardrobe? Or is this the part where you tell me I’m no longer allowed to eat carbs?”

“Carbs aren’t my concern. Your obedience is.”

Her lips twitch, and she can’t resist pushing me further. “So, what kind of commands are we talking about here? Do I need to call you ‘master’? Kneel when you enter the room?”

“Be careful, Veronica. You might not like the answer.”

“Try me.”

I lean in closer, my voice a low murmur that is meant for her ears alone. “When I tell you to hold my hand in public, you’ll do it. When I tell you to smile, you’ll smile. And when I touch you—when I kiss you—you’ll act like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”

Heat floods her face, and for a moment, she’s too stunned to respond. The image my words conjure is far too vivid. She shakes her head quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation. “And if I don’t?”

“Then Marco wins. Is that what you want?”

She grits her teeth, hating how easily I’ve backed her into a corner. “Fine. But don’t think for a second that I’m going to make this easy for you.”

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