Page 39 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I walk.
The guests blur at the edges of my vision, a haze of sharp suits and polite eyes. Their smiles are too practiced, too plastic. I wonder how many of them know this isn’t a celebration. How many of them care. They watch as I move, slow and careful, toward the man waiting at the altar like a statue carved from ice.
Maxim doesn’t smile.
He stands tall in his black suit, broad shoulders rigid beneath the tailored cut, jaw tight. His hands are clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. No warmth greets me, no affection. Just the cold certainty of inevitability.
This is happening.
I force my feet forward, my breath shallow.
Halfway down the aisle, I catch Tiago’s eye. He nods once, barely perceptible. His face is calm, composed. Victorious. Beside him, Mateo sits still, hands folded in his lap, gaze flickering between me and Maxim with something that might be concern—or pity. I can’t tell anymore.
When I reach the altar, Maxim finally moves. He extends a hand, palm up, steady as steel.
I place mine in his. His fingers are warm.
That single point of contact sears.
The officiant begins to speak, but the words blur at the edges. I hear phrases: unity, honor, vows. Duty. His voice is smooth and practiced, but it feels distant, like someone playing a recording in another room. I stand beside Maxim, nodding when I’m supposed to, answering when cued.
“Kiera Vargas, do you take Maxim Sharov…?”
I glance up. His eyes are on me—sharp, cool, impassive.
“I do,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake, even though it should.
“Maxim Sharov, do you take Kiera Vargas…?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”
There’s no tenderness in it. No pause, no softness. It’s a statement of fact. A sentence being passed.
Our vows are short, stripped of sentiment. No personal promises. No whispered hopes. Just obligation wrapped in ritual, as clinical as a business transaction.
The officiant nods once and closes the book. “You may now kiss the bride.”
Maxim steps forward.
His hands brush my waist, firm but not rough. His lips meet mine—barely. A soft press, measured and dry. They’re gone before I can even draw breath.
That’s it.
Applause erupts behind us. Flashbulbs go off like fireworks. Smiles stretch across painted faces. I blink against the white-hot light, heart hammering, throat dry.
I’m a Sharov now.
The name echoes in my head, heavier than any vow spoken aloud.
He turns to lead me down the aisle. I follow.
Our arms brush as we walk side by side, and the world watches.
Inside, I feel hollow.
There’s no victory in this. No triumph. Only the subtle click of a trap snapping shut. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s unreadable as ever, eyes forward, his posture perfect.
I have a husband now. Though I don’t know what kind of man he’ll be. What kind of monster I’ve married.
