Page 31 of Bratva Hostage

The logic stands. The family needs this. Yet there’s a side of me that can’t deny an eagerness for that moment it becomes official. As twisted as it might be, I want to see her wearing a ring that marks her as mine. Even if she fights me every day afterward, it means Thorne can never break her again.

The vow will bind us, no matter how much she resists. If that means I carry her hatred along with that vow, I’ll manage. Better her rage than letting Thorne rip her away. Better a forced union than leaving her unprotected.

I rest my hand against the window frame, determined to snuff out any doubt. I’ll get through the ceremony, then push forward. Redwood Point is waiting, and Thorne’s move is set. We’ll crush him on our terms.

Chapter 12 - Cecily

My hands won’t stop trembling, no matter how many times I clench them into fists. Today is my wedding day, though not by choice. I stand in an ornate dressing room, facing a mirror that reflects a person I barely recognize. A tailored gown flows around my ankles, chosen by the staff after I refused to pick one myself. The style is traditional: lace along the sleeves, a fitted bodice, and too many tiny embellishments. People kept knocking earlier, offering last-minute touches or final adjustments. I waved them away and locked the door; I’m desperate for one moment of quiet.

I smooth my palms over the bodice, wishing everything didn’t feel so constricting. The entire mansion has been transformed into a showplace for this ceremony. There’s a grand hallway set up with rows of chairs, an aisle lined with some ridiculous floral arrangement, and an officiant waiting to pronounce me the bride of Dimitri Barkov. I can’t quite wrap my mind around that title. A Barkov. One of them. The thought boils my blood.

A timid knock interrupts my angry pacing. “Miss Thorne,” a soft-spoken woman calls from outside. “They’re ready for you.”

I swallow a lump in my throat and glance at the mirror again. My hair is pinned in a style that reveals my face, so there’s no escaping the moment I walk out there. Let them see the scowl. Let them know I’m doing this under protest. I step into the hall and see two suited guards who nod stiffly but say nothing. They guide me toward a wide corridor that leads to the main foyer.

Around us, decorations cover every surface. Gilded columns rise on either side, draped with elaborate swags of fabric that match the flowers in my useless bouquet. Staff members send sympathetic or curious looks my way. I’m sure they’re used to lavish events, but I doubt they’re used to a bride who looks like she might take off at any second.

At the entrance to what feels like a makeshift chapel, Maksim stands in place as if he’s waiting to confirm I haven’t run off. He’s wearing a sleek suit that highlights his broad frame. He gives me a short nod and says, “It’s time.”

I take a breath that does nothing to calm me. The corridor stretches before me, decorated to the hilt. An aisle runner is unrolled on the floor, lined with vases overflowing with flowers. The seats are filled with members of the Barkov Bratva and their associates.

I force my feet to move. Every step feels heavier than the last, and my pulse is thudding in my ears. The hush in the space grows, though I detect whispers from a few onlookers. They know what this is—an ironclad statement, a show of power. Dimitri’s territory, Dimitri’s men, Dimitri’s bride. I can’t even summon the energy to glare at them; I just focus on placing one foot in front of the other.

Then I see him up ahead. Dimitri stands at the end of the aisle, wearing a tailored black suit that fits like a second skin. He’s got that same controlled demeanor I’ve grown used to. I can’t figure out if he’s bored or concentrating. Either way, there’s nothing soft in his gaze. He’s not looking at me with affection. This is about strategy, and we both know it.

My dress swishes around my ankles as I reach him. A hush settles, and the officiant, a dignified-looking older man, opens a small book. I can’t make myself focus on the formalwords that follow. The officiant drones on about unity, loyalty, and binding vows. I tune it out.

When the officiant instructs us to state our promises, Dimitri speaks first. “I, Dimitri Barkov, take you, Cecily Throne, to uphold our union, protect our interests, and stand together.” The words are carefully chosen to reflect the Bratva’s priorities. There’s no mention of love, no flowery sentiment. Just a vow of protection and allegiance.

Then it’s my turn. Every nerve in my body screams that I shouldn’t say a single thing. But if I fail to speak, I’ll make a scene that might not end well for me. I refuse to show more vulnerability in front of all these watchers. I adopt the same mechanical tone. “I, Cecily Thorne, take you, Dimitri Barkov…” My voice hitches on that last name. “…to honor this arrangement.” I stop there, ignoring the officiant’s attempt to prompt me for more words.

He moves along smoothly. When he asks for rings, Dimitri nods to Maksim, who steps forward and places two simple bands on a small cushion. Dimitri slips one onto my finger. A flick of silver, and it’s over my knuckle, snug enough to feel like a shackle. My skin crawls at the finality of it. I place the other ring on Dimitri’s hand, noticing how warm his skin is. I want to fling the entire cushion across the room, but I force myself to complete the gesture. The officiant declares us husband and wife, and it feels like the noose has tightened.

A ripple of subdued applause follows. Dimitri leans in and makes the barest contact with my cheek—a perfunctory peck that feels more like a reminder of who owns me now. Every muscle in my body tenses, but I stay still, letting him make this public show. My eyes flick to the side, trying to avoid his.

The ceremony concludes with an announcement that we’ll hold a brief reception in the main dining hall. Dimitri offers me his arm. I stare at it for a second, then loop mine through. We walk up the aisle, past the rows of onlookers. I overhear hushed commentary: “Smart move,” “Good for the family,” “Thorne’s going to regret crossing them.” All of it fuels my anger.

In the dining hall, a line of servers presents trays of drinks and small bites. A handful of men approach us to congratulate Dimitri on his “wise alliance.” No one looks at me unless it’s to cast a fleeting glance of pity or curiosity.

I manage to slip away from Dimitri’s side for a moment when a cluster of men claim his attention about Redwood Point. It isn’t long before Dimitri finds me. He pulls away from the men he was talking to and crosses the floor to me. The ring on my finger catches my eye again, mocking me.

“Are you going to speak with anyone?” he asks.

“I have nothing to say to them,” I reply. “Unless you’d like me to congratulate them on witnessing my captivity?”

“Lower your voice. We’re drawing enough attention as it is.”

“I really don’t care. You already forced me into a wedding. You think I’m worried about a few stares?”

He exhales then says, “I’ll make a few final rounds. Then we’ll leave.”

“Great,” I mutter. “I can’t wait to see what you have planned for the rest of the night.”

His grey eyes move over my face, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he gestures for me to follow him to a smaller gathering near the far corner, where Aleksei stands with a few high-ranking men. They nod politely, but I offer only a perfunctory greeting.

Aleksei quickly addresses me. “Congratulations,” he says, though there’s nothing celebratory in his tone. “You’ve strengthened our family, Cecily.”

I grit my teeth. “Lucky me.”

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