Page 26 of Sold to the Bratva
Katya crosses her arms and cocks her head.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks, chin tipped upward to show she doesn’t appreciate being summoned.
“I found the receipt for your dress,” I say, fully aware she planted it on my desk. I lift the slip between two fingers, brow arched. “Fifteen grand?”
She shrugs. “You told me to pick whatever I wanted,” she says, chin lifted as though bracing for a fight. “I chose the one I loved. Are you going to deny me that on my wedding day?”
I dropped the paper and capture her gaze. This is nothing but a game. She blew that money just to needle me, and I intend to let her think it worked, if only for a heartbeat. The real pièce de résistance is still coming.
“No,” I drawl, offering a slow, sweet smile. “Of course not. Lucky for you, I’m the kind of husband who gives his wife anything she desires.”
I stroll toward her, deliberate and quiet, until barely a foot remains between us. I watch her lips part, note the flicker in her eyes as she realizes I’ve tricked her, and trace the rise of her chest as I invade her space.
I savor the small hitch in her breathing. Her eyelids dip, and I wonder whether she’s replaying the night I made her come. I hope so, and I hope she caught the double meaning in my promise.
“Anything?” she asks, brow arched, her voice hushed and uncertain.
We’re so close I can feel each warm exhale against my skin. The air crackles. It would take nothing to clasp her waist, thread myfingers through her hair, and tilt her proud chin toward me. One hard, hungry kiss and she’d surrender.
“Anything,” I whisper, my voice low and seductive.
I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, and I know she feels the same. Her heavy-lidded gaze and parted lips betray her. She swallows, and the subtle bob of her throat mesmerizes me. I ache to kiss a path down her neck, taste her skin, and find the spot that makes her gasp.
All that can wait. We have a lifetime to explore each other. For now, I just need her calm enough to reach the altar.
She steps back and gives a small shake of her head, as though clearing fog.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says at last, her mask sliding back into place with a wicked grin.
Sooner or later, one of us is going to break.
10
KATYA
Dawn breaks blindingly early on my wedding day. I sit up, bleary-eyed, and stretch. My limbs protest, taut and aching after a night of almost no sleep. The ceremony barrels toward me anyway, and in a few minutes a glam team will arrive to turn me into a bride. Papa chose them, of course. He hired the priciest, best-reviewed stylists in the city, determined that no last-minute sabotage slip through. They would never risk their sterling reputations by making me look anything less than flawless, no matter how much I might wish it.
Resignation settles over me as I swing my legs off the mattress and shuffle into the shower. I linger under the hot spray, willing it to unknot my stiff muscles. If only it could rinse away the knot of nerves twisting in my gut. By nightfall I’ll be Katya Kozlova, chained to Isaac for life.
I slide into the underdress Maude laid out, then shrug on the satin bridal robe she left behind. A cheerful note rests on top reading:You’re going to be beautiful!
As soon as the glam team finishes, she’ll come back to lace me into the gown. This is it. From here on out the day will run on autopilot, giving me no chance to hit the brakes.
The team sweeps in, and my suite morphs into a hive of activity. One stylist arranges a towering display of palettes and powders, while the other lines every hot tool along the bathroom counter. They settle me in front of the mirror and move in perfect sync, with the intent of transforming me into a glowing bride.
I refuse to meet my own gaze while they work. They pepper me with polite questions about the day, but my clipped answers make it clear I’m not in the mood. Eventually they surrender to the silence, and I let my mind go blank. They seem to finish in record time, though maybe the clock is simply sprinting today. My life feels stuck on fast-forward, rushing toward inevitable doom.
I watch, numb, as they pack away their kits. My hands won’t stop trembling. I clasp them in my lap and stare at nothing until the stylists’ footsteps fade, leaving me alone for a single heartbeat.
It isn’t fear, exactly. It’s a stomach-churning cocktail of adrenaline, raw nerves, and simmering rage. My pulse thrashes under my skin like a trapped bird. At last I face my reflection, as though she might hand me answers.
The girl in the glass stares back with too-wide eyes, flawless makeup, and an artfully pinned twist of hair. She’s stunning, radiant, immaculate. Yet beneath all that polish I see the truth. Every brushstroke is a mask laid over my panic.
A sharp knock makes me jolt. Before I can answer, the handle turns and my father steps inside, wonder brightening his gaze. He says nothing at first and just drinks me in. Stopping besidethe vanity, he meets my eyes in the mirror, and I catch a shimmer of moisture there.
“You look beautiful,” he says at last.
I suspect he’s mostly relieved I haven’t undone the stylists’ impeccable work in the two minutes they left me alone. Still, I’m nowhere near done fighting for the future I want.
