"Then I'll handle it." His thumb strokes my cheek. "That's what husbands do,malyshka. We protect what's ours. And you're mine to protect now."
Wolf's Den is exactly what I expected—dark wood, expensive leather, the smell of cigars and danger. Men in suits worth more than cars, women who look like they walked off magazine covers. Everyone beautiful and deadly.
Pyotr keeps me glued to his side the moment we enter. His hand locks around my waist, possessive and claiming. Several people look our way, curiosity clear on their faces.
"Pyotr," a man greets us—older, distinguished, commanding presence. "This must be your bride."
"Dimitri," Pyotr acknowledges. "Yes. My wife, Vera."
Dimitri's eyes are kind as he looks at me. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Maksimova. My own wife, Anya, has been asking about you."
Anya appears beside him—the woman who took me dress shopping. She smiles warmly. "How are you adjusting?"
"I'm..." I glance at Pyotr, who's watching me intently. "I'm adjusting."
"Good." She squeezes my hand. "It gets easier. Then it gets... different."
We move through the room. Pyotr introduces me to various people—names and faces that blur together. I'm hyperaware of the attention, of eyes tracking us, assessing me. Judging whether I'm worthy of being a Bratva wife.
More than once, I catch men's gazes lingering. Not inappropriately, just looking. But each time it happens, I feel Pyotr tense beside me. His grip on my waist tightens. Possessive. Warning.
We're standing near the bar, Pyotr talking business with two other men, when I feel it. The weight of someone's stare. Not a casual glance—a prolonged, assessing look that makes my skin crawl.
I turn slightly and see him. Younger than most men here—maybe early thirties. Heavily tattooed, wearing an expensive but somehow cheaper-looking suit than the others. And he's staring at me with an expression that makes me want to move closer to Pyotr.
I shift, pressing against my husband's side. His arm immediately tightens around me.
"What's wrong?" he asks, cutting off mid-sentence to look at me.
"Nothing, I just—"
But he's already seen it. Seen where I was looking. Seen the man staring.
Everything changes.
The temperature in the room seems to drop. Pyotr's entire body goes rigid, muscles coiling with predatory intent. The men he was talking to take an instinctive step back.
"Stay here," he orders me, voice flat and cold.
"Pyotr."
But he's already moving.
I watch as he crosses the room in long, purposeful strides. The crowd parts instinctively, sensing violence coming. The man—I hear someone whisper "Yuri"—doesn't see him approaching until it's too late.
Pyotr doesn't say a word.
His fist connects with Yuri's face with a sickening crack.
The entire room goes silent. All conversation stops. Everyone turns to watch.
Yuri staggers back, blood already streaming from his nose. He raises his hands—whether to defend himself or surrender, I can't tell.
It doesn't matter.
Pyotr hits him again. And again. Three brutal, efficient punches. I can hear bone breaking. Can see blood spray across expensive wood floors.
Yuri crumples, hands covering his ruined face.
