My cousins are clustered by the fountain, masks dangling in their hands, champagne glasses raised. They look at her, then at me, then back again, and I see the envy burn bright. They thought I’d choose some empty pretty thing. Instead, I chose a wildfire they couldn’t handle if they tried.
My father waits at the far end of the hall, near the marble steps. Still masked, still regal, his presence part of the architecture itself, cold and immovable. He doesn’t move when I approach, doesn’t blink when I stop in front of him with Natasha at my side.
I tilt her chin up, make her look at him, make him see her bare face. “Father,” I say, voice carrying, “this is Natasha. The woman I’ve chosen as my wife.”
A murmur ripples through the hall. A cousin scoffs. Another hisses a curse. My father’s eyes flicker, cold and sharp, taking her in.
“Chosen?” he repeats, slow, as if testing the word on his tongue.
“Yes.” I don’t flinch, don’t look away. My hand tightens on hers until she feels the promise in my grip. “My wife. My queen. The future of this family.”
The silence stretches. Then my father exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, though there’s no warmth in it. “You bring me surprises, Ivor. Always.”
His gaze drags over Natasha again, and my chest burns with the urge to shield her, to tear his eyes out if they linger too long. But then he nods once, curt. “So be it. You’ve made your choice. The rest of us will see if it was a wise one.”
I smile, slow, sharp. “They’ll see. Soon enough.”
I bend, kiss Natasha full on the mouth, uncaring of the gasps, the whispers, the shock that ripples through the crowd. She stiffens for a heartbeat, then melts into me, and when I pull back I know every man in this room understands: she’s mine.
Not prey. Not a pawn. Not a guest.
Mine.
Epilogue
Natasha
The music has stopped. The guests have gone. Outside, Monaco’s night glitters, but in here it’s just us, Ivor and me, in the master suite of his family’s estate.
I’m still in the dress. The silk clings to my skin, heavy with heat and champagne. My veil lies discarded somewhere near the door. My shoes are gone. My pulse is a drum in my throat.
I’m married.
Married to a man who should terrify me. Married into the Bratva world I came to expose. Married to the one man who saw me, wanted me, and crowned me anyway.
And now, as I slip the bodice down, baring my breasts to the cool air, I can’t stop thinking about the tiny, secret thing I haven’t told him yet. The missed period. The strange heaviness in my belly. The knowledge that his filthy promises may already be coming true.
Ivor watches me from the edge of the bed, jacket splayed open, shirt undone. His tie dangles loose around his throat, his eyes dark and hungry.
“Come here, Mrs. Antonova,” he murmurs, crooking a finger. “Show your husband how grateful you are.”
My knees go weak at the sound of it. Mrs. Antonova. His wife.
I sink between his thighs, hands sliding up his strong legs, unbuttoning him, freeing him. His cock is already hard, thick and heavy, the tip slick. I take him into my mouth slowly, reverently, savoring the way his breath shudders at the first stroke of my tongue.
He fists his hand in my hair, not to force me, but to guide me, murmuring praise in that low growl. “Good girl. Look at you, worshipping your king. That’s it. Take me deep.”
His cock fills my throat, but I moan around him, tasting salt and heat, feeling him throb against my tongue. I’ve never felt more powerful, more wanted, more alive.
When he’s slick and trembling under my mouth, he pulls me up, kisses me hard, and spins me around.
“On my lap,” he orders. “Back to me.”
I obey, straddling him backwards. The view in the mirror across the room makes my breath hitch. My veilless hair tumbling down my back, my dress pooled around my waist, his big hands spanning my hips as his cock presses at my entrance.
He pushes into me slowly, inch by inch, until I’m seated on him, impaled, both of us groaning at the stretch. His hands slide up my body to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I’m trembling.
“Watch yourself,” he growls against my neck, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look at how perfect you are. My wife. My queen. My breeder.”