Page 34 of Used By the Merciless Bratva
Can he just make him skip this part with another threatening look?
I knew I was out of luck when Danil took a step closer. His left hand went to my waist while his right forefinger lifted my chin.
He’s rubbing it in my face that I can’t do anything now.
“I’ll ruin you,” I uttered as his face inched closer to mine.
“Then, we’ll burn together,” he answered without missing a beat.
Then his lips landed on mine. He didn’t wait for me to kiss back before moving his lips over mine, nibbling and sucking. The fervor in his kiss made me forget my resentment as I melted into him, kissing him back.
The hoots, claps, and laughter from the front rows—definitely from the other Yezhov brothers—woke me from my trance. I pulled back almost violently.
The bastard brought his other hand to my waist, drawing me to himself as his lips held on to mine. I stopped moving my lips, but he didn’t stop for a few seconds.
I smiled inwardly at his raised brow when I held his lower lip between my teeth, as he moved to step back.
Two can play.
My eyes met his for a moment before I stepped back, having sent my message.
The ceremony went on in a blur as different people congratulated us, telling me names which I forgot almost immediately.
As I petulantly moved away from the altar with Danil, something fell from the bouquet that was handed to me.
It was a small white paper cutout.
Picking it up, I saw it had a short handwritten text that read:
“Feliks knows the truth.”
What truth?
Who is Feliks among them all?
As I hid it, I decided to find out. If the message was in the bouquet, it was definitely for me. And any private message to me from these people who knew next to nothing about me must be important.
Chapter 8 – Danil
The journey from the ornate garden altar to my estate’s private suite unfolded in a haunting silence, thick with unspoken tensions. I braced for a turbulent confrontation, expecting her to resist or scream. Yet, to my astonishment, Katria Wolfe moved beside me with an unsettling grace.
Her black wedding gown, an audacious affront to the sacred rites, flowed behind her like a living shadow. It was exquisitely crafted silk, hugging her willowy figure, but beneath its beauty, it served as both armor and declaration. She had worn this dark emblem of rebellion for the world to see, yet with the door now securely shut, she seemed to shed the last remnants of that protective layer of resistance.
The stillness around us screamed louder than any cry, coiling around my senses like a noose. Her quiet surrender was profoundly disquieting, a far cry from the outburst I’d expected. It felt like a trap. As we ascended, her precise, almost choreographed movements left me questioning what lay ahead.
Luka, my silent guardian, melted back into the hallway as I led Katria to the magnificent slab of polished oak that was our suite door. Pushing it open, I stepped across the threshold, my instinct to survey the room a reflex from years of habit. The suite sprawled before us, a cavernous expanse of dark wood and neutral tones, designed for impersonal grandeur-a blank canvas awaiting the next Yezhov couple.
As I stepped fully into the space, I felt my shoulders sag beneath the weight of the day’s performance, a burden that had crept upon me like an unwelcome shadow. The first thing I instinctively reached for was my tie. I pulled it loose, feeling the constriction around my collar give way to a rush of fresh air-a small act of defiance, a shedding of the meticulously constructedrole I had been cast into:the groom, the dutiful brother, the public face of the Bratva.
With each tug at the fabric, I could feel the suffocating expectations of those titles slipping away like water through my fingers.
In that same moment, as the tie unraveled, I was reclaiming a fragment of my true self, a fleeting moment of liberation amid the grand charade. The echo of my own heartbeats reverberated against the walls, reminding me that beneath the weight of duty lay a flicker of individuality, still fighting to break free. It was a paradox—this lavish space, devoid of personal warmth, reflected the duality of my existence, echoing back the desires I was required to wear and the desires I dared not speak aloud.
“Go ahead and scream if you wish,” I murmured without glancing in her direction, my voice a soft drone reverberating against the lofty ceiling. I didn’t even glance in her direction. “Yell. Hurl something if it makes you feel better. It won’t alter a single damn thing about where we stand.”
I sensed her poised just behind me, an electric tension hanging in the air. I had carefully crafted the stage for her uprising, carving out a space for her to lash out and deliver the reaction I anticipated. It was a strategic game, a demonstration that even her acts of defiance were a route I had already anticipated and defused.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her voice a calm and steady whisper.
