Page 130 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

He pushed inside slowly, so carefully despite the tension in his jaw. The stretch was perfect, filling some emptiness I'd carried too long. When he was fully seated, he dropped his forehead to mine.

"Briony." My name was a prayer.

He started moving, deep steady strokes that built the pleasure back impossibly fast. I wrapped my legs around him, meeting each thrust, and his control started slipping. His pace increased, harder, faster, exactly what I needed.

"Yes, just like that..."

"You feel—" His voice broke. "Perfect. Mine."

"Yours," I agreed, and felt him shudder.

He slid a hand between us, finding where we were joined, and the added stimulation pushed me over again. I clenched around him, and he followed with a harsh groan, hips grinding deep as he came.

We stayed locked together, breathing hard, hearts racing. Finally he rolled carefully to his back and pulled me against his chest, my back to his front. His arm banded across my waist, holding me close.

"Mine," he said again, softer this time. A promise, not a demand.

"Ours," I corrected.

His lips brushed my shoulder. "Ours."

Varlam tightened his arms around me, pulling me closer.

And as I looked down at the ring on my left hand, I suddenly realized something.

I had designed the day that led so many people to happiness.

This time, it was finally my turn.

Epilogue

Briony

The sky stayed gray from dawn on the wedding day. When Winnie pulled back the curtains, I sat at the mirror while the stylist worked through my last strand of hair. Rain crawled down the glass. Trees in the distance bent in the wind.

"Don't look." Winnie blocked the window immediately. "Rain on your wedding day means luck."

"You looked that up last night?"

"Five minutes ago."

My stomach tightened.

Not because of Varlam.

I'd already decided I wanted to marry him. What made me nervous was that I'd designed every detail myself. I'd planned the path to happiness for countless people, knew when flowers should arrive, what second the music should start, who should hand over the rings. But when I became the one at the finish line, all my professional experience suddenly meant nothing.

I couldn't schedule my own heartbeat.

"You can't run, sis."

Rory poked his head through the door in a dark gray suit. His bow tie hung crooked, almost by his ear, hair slicked with way too much gel.

I turned the chair.

"Who said I'm running?"

"Makar said all brides want to run before the wedding."