Page 1 of Kidnapped & Bred By The BRATVA
Olivia
The gown is heavy enough to drown me. That’s all I can think of as the heavy oak doors to the church swing open on creaking hinges.
Layers of satin and tulle whisper around my legs with every step, a suffocating cocoon of white designed to make me look like a perfect bride. But I don’t feel perfect. I feel trapped. Each footstep ahead of me is another nail in the coffin my father has built for me, and I can hardly breathe.
The church smells of roses and candle wax, cloying and thick. The guests shift in their chairs, stand and turn to watch me. A hundred pairs of eyes burn into me, measuring, judging. I’ve been trained for this moment all my life, walk straight, don’t stumble, don’t cry, but all I want to do is turn and run.
My groom, a man I’ve never actually met, waits for me at the end of the aisle. He is tall and broad-shouldered, but his expression is blank, his jaw clenched. He doesn’t want this any more than I do. His eyes finally land on me and his face carves into disdain. He doesn’t bother hiding it. The sneer twists his mouth as his words spill into the chapel, low but sharp enough to cut.
“Look at the size of her. Jesus Christ, they never told me she was a hippo.”
Now it’s my turn to clench my jaw. To keep my opinions about him, about this, to myself. I grip my bouquet tighter, a thorn missed by the florist breaks the skin on my palm, but I barely feel it.
We both know this marriage isn’t about love or even desire. It’s about our fathers, about alliances, about debts and power and who controls what corner of the city.
But he could at least be polite.
I force myself to keep moving. One step. Another. The veil floats over my face, a sheer prison. My father’s hand hovers at my back, a warning more than a comfort. His grip on my future is tighter than the lace around my ribs.
My pulse thunders in my ears, a desperate drumbeat. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. But what choice do I have?
The music swells, and I lift my eyes to the altar.
That’s when I see him.
Not the man I’m supposed to marry, not my so-called groom. No. Him.
He’s standing near the front on the groom’s side like a storm in a suit. A thick scar cuts from his jaw to his temple; a reminder carved into his flesh that he’s not a man you walk away from. His dark eyes lock on me like a sniper sighting his mark. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his suit, muscles coiled, restless. My stomach plummets, and yet something in me tilts toward him. A magnetic pull. Dangerous and undeniable. And his eyes, God, his eyes, are fixed on me, burning with a hunger so fierce my knees nearly buckle.
The moment our gazes lock, something in my chest snaps. A tether pulled too tight, a cage door flung wide. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t blink. And in that instant, I know. He’s nolonger a guest. He’s no longer here to watch a stranger marry his cousin.
He’s here for me.
My breath catches, my throat dry. I keep walking, because what else can I do? My father’s hand presses me forward, a reminder that this is my duty. But with every step, that stranger’s stare strips me bare. He sees me, not the obedient daughter, not the political pawn, not the bride in white. Me.
And hewantsme.
The groom shifts uncomfortably at the altar, his gaze flicking between me and the man in the pews. He knows it too. He knows what’s about to happen.
The air shifts. The heavy wooden doors at the back slam shut, sealing us all inside. A ripple of unease moves through the crowd, but no one dares to rise.
The stranger moves.
My stomach drops, a rush of terror and something darker, sharper, curling low inside me. He doesn’t walk like a man with doubts. He strides, certain, his long legs eating the aisle, his gaze never leaving mine.
Gasps break out. Whispers surge. My father’s hand clamps down on my elbow, but it’s too late.
The man reaches me.
He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t speak. He bends, scoops me up like I weigh nothing, and throws me over his shoulder.
The world tilts. My veil slips sideways, satin skimming across my cheek as my vision swings wildly. I drop the bouquet and notice the beads of blood on my palm before looking up at the altar, the guests’ shocked faces, the groom’s grim relief. A scream lodges in my throat, but I don’t release it.
Because beneath the terror, beneath the shock, there’s something else. A spark. A jolt. A rush of blood that sets every nerve alight.
His arm bands around the backs of my thighs, solid, unyielding. His scent fills my nose, clean, expensive cologne, old leather, something dangerous and male. His other hand smooths over my skirt, as though he is fixing it, until he squeezes my ass hard and I gasp. My palms press against the broad expanse of his back, muscles shifting like coiled steel as he moves.
Around us, the church erupts. My father shouts my name; his voice ragged with rage. Guests gasp, some rising, some frozen in horror.
