“Three days,” I murmur against her ear. “Then you’re mine officially. No more pretending. No more fighting inevitability. You become Elena Sharov and everything changes.”
“Everything or nothing?” Her voice is barely audible.
“Both.”
I step back before I do something I’m not ready to do. Before control slips completely and I take what isn’t quite mine yet.
“Sleep,” I tell her. “You’ll need your strength.”
I leave her standing at the balcony, staring out at the gates that will keep her contained long after the wedding makes captivity permanent.
Chapter Fifteen - Elena
The chapel is smaller than I expected.
Ancient stone walls, narrow windows letting in filtered light that barely touches the shadows. The air inside smells like incense and something darker—gun oil, maybe, or the residue of violence that no amount of holy water can wash away.
This is where Bratva leaders come to seal alliances. Where marriages happen not for love but for power. Where vows mean control, not commitment.
I arrived in a black SUV surrounded by guards I don’t know, escorted by men whose loyalty belongs entirely to Aleksandr. My phone was taken at the estate before we left. No cameras. No witnesses I chose. No way to reach anyone who might care that I’m doing this against my will.
Not that anyone would care.
My father agreed to this. Signed the contracts, gave his blessing, sold me to save his failing empire. The rest of my family hasn’t even tried to contact me. I’m alone in this, the way I’ve always been alone when it mattered.
The ivory gown fits perfectly.
I hate that. Hate that Aleksandr measured me himself, studied my body with clinical precision, ensured every detail would be flawless. The dress is beautiful—lace and silk, elegant without being ostentatious.
I stand at the entrance of the chapel, looking down the short aisle to where Aleksandr waits. He’s dressed in a dark suit, immaculate as always, expression unreadable. Behind him, witnesses I don’t recognize—Bratva men, probably, people whose presence makes this legally binding in ways that matter to his world.
No one from my side. No one for me.
I walk forward because there’s no alternative. My heels click against ancient stone, each step echoing in the silence. The dress trails behind me, heavy fabric whispering across the floor.
Aleksandr’s eyes track my movement, pale blue and intense, cataloging every detail. When I reach him, his hand settles at my lower back. Not comforting. Possessive, like he’s steadying property rather than supporting a bride.
The priest begins speaking in Russian. His tone is reverent but rushed, the words flowing together in a cadence I only partly follow. I catch fragments—obedience, unity, bloodlines, sacred bonds. Enough to understand the gravity even if not every word makes sense.
This isn’t a celebration. It’s a sealing. A contract made official through ritual and witness.
Aleksandr responds at the appropriate moments, his voice steady and certain. He’s done this before, maybe not marriage specifically, but made vows in chapels like this. Sealed alliances with blood and promise. This is familiar territory for him.
For me, it’s surreal. Nightmarish. I’m standing in a chapel promising my life to a man who kidnapped me, who’s destroying my family, who’s forcing this marriage for strategic reasons that have nothing to do with me as a person.
When the priest gestures for rings, Aleksandr produces a simple platinum band. Heavy, elegant, unmistakably expensive. He takes my hand—his grip firm, warm—and slides the ring onto my finger.
It feels heavier than it should. Like the weight carries more than just metal and promise. Like it’s a chain disguised as jewelry, binding me to him in ways I can’t escape.
His thumb presses briefly into my skin, slow and deliberate. The touch sends heat up my arm despite everything. A warning disguised as intimacy. A reminder that he can make my body respond even when my mind resists.
I hate it. Hate him. Hate myself for the way my pulse jumps under his touch.
The priest says something that must mean kiss, because Aleksandr’s hand moves to my jaw, tilting my face up.
“Easy,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “This is the easy part.”
Then his mouth is on mine.
