Page 11 of Sinful Union

Pavel’s lips leave mine, but the heat of the kiss lingers, sizzling low in my stomach.

I’m so turned on I can hardly think straight. My panties are soaked, and I want to squirm.I’m breathless, completely undone.

He lifts his hand, his fingers skimming my jaw before his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, a slow, almost lazy, touch, like he’s savoring the moment. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“So beautiful,” he says.

The sound of a microphone crackling fills the space, followed by an announcement that sends my stomach plummeting. “Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to the happy couple!”

Pavel removes his arms from around my waist slowly, his fingers trailing along my back before he steps forward. He plucks two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, effortlessly stepping into the role of the adoring husband.

He hands me a glass, then lifts his champagne flute, all eyes on him, on us. The room hushes into silence. Pavel glances down at me, snaking his arm around my waist again, before he speaks. “I wasn’t planning on giving a speech tonight, but standing here now, looking at my wife…” He pauses, his gaze dragging over me like a physical caress, makes my skin heat up, “I’ve realized something.”

I swallow hard in anticipation. The look in his eyes gives me anxiety.

“This marriage is supposed to be about family, about alliances, strength.” He lets the words settle, his fingers tapping lightly against his glass. “That’s how it is in our world. But for me, it goes beyond that.”

The room is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Even Piotr is paying close attention, watching Pavel with a sharp glint in his eyes. Vlad is in the corner, a thoughtful expression playing across his features, as if he’s trying to figure out what angle Pavel is playing.

Pavel shifts the flute so that the stem is between his two middle fingers, the glass resting in his palm. He turns it around in his hand as he continues, his other hand firmly pressed against my ribs. “Those who knew me years ago, knew Kat was my future. But then one day, she was gone.” He exhales sharply, proof of the weight of his words. “That’s life, is it not, always taking us in directions we don’t expect.”

My throat tightens as I try to guess where he’s going with this.

“And here I am again, my life taking yet another direction. She’s here, beside me. I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in second chances.” His eyes flick to mine, his arm holding me close.

“This woman… She’s fierce, she’s smart, she’s stubborn as hell.”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd, but I can’t even break into a grin. I can barely breathe. “And after all these years, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

I inhale sharply as the crowd gasps a collective, “Aww.”

He turns back to the guests, lifting his glass slightly higher. “Everybody, please raise your glasses to my wife; to Kat Fetisova.”

A chorus of, “To Kat!” rings through the room as the guests lift their glasses and drink.

I lift mine as well, my hand trembling slightly, as I take a sip of champagne. He’s too good at this.

Pavel takes a long sip of bubbly before handing the microphone back to the DJ.

“What a speech,” the DJ says, turning to address the crowd. “For us, the night is only getting started, but for the happy couple…”

Smiles appear on the faces of the guests. They know what the DJ is about to say.

“It’s time for them to take their party of two upstairs!”

Bratva weddings are like medieval royalty—it needs to be announced that the couple is retreating to consummate the marriage.

Applause erupts, and a wave of cheers rolls through the crowd. The moment startles me, and I step back, trying to catch my breath. Pavel notices: He has a strange look on his face.

“Come,” he says, taking my hand in his. “It’s time to go.”

I force a smile as I turn toward the guests, playing the perfect blushing bride, as we weave through the well-wishers.

It’s suffocating—the hands reaching out to clasp ours, the shouts of congratulations, the envelopes stuffed with cash discreetly slipped into Pavel’s grip. Bratva tradition—power disguised as generosity. Everyone in the room knows what this marriage means, what it cements, and they play their roles well.

As do I. I smile when I’m supposed to, nod when appropriate. I keep my hand tucked in Pavel’s, trying to ignore the warmth of his grip, as I remind myself over and over of the plan.

Suddenly, Piotr is standing in front of me. His arms wrap me into a firm but brief embrace, his lips brush my ear as he whispers, “An extra vial of poison is in your makeup case. Add it to a glass of wine, and he’ll be gone within the hour. You can do this, sister. Good luck.”

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