Page 2 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

"Sorry," he said, his tone worse than I'd imagined. "She kind of makes me sick."

He even exaggerated a gesture toward his belly fat. The guests' laughter finally broke free.

My chest ached from trying to breathe. Was I that fat? Give me a break.

"All right, Briony, the floor is yours." Chloe had finally enjoyed my humiliation enough and held the microphone out to me. "I'm sure you have lots of well-wishes for Makar and me."

I didn't take it right away.

"Briony, don't keep the guests waiting. You don't want to ruin this wedding, do you?" she urged in my ear. "Think about your job. Think about your bonus."

"Uh... I wish you both a marriage that you totally deserve." I finished my speech as briefly as possible, then put down the microphone.

I really hoped they understood what I meant.

"Can I go now?" I looked at Chloe. I was so done with her.

"Of course. Anytime." She smiled and gestured for me to leave.

I turned to go, but suddenly felt a massive pull. My hem ripped at the seam. Then I lost my balance and fell to the floor.

"Ah!" I cried out instinctively, but it was too late.

Completely done.

I looked back toward the source of that pull. Chloe's high heel was planted right on the strip of gray fabric that had separated from my body. And my overly generous ass was completely exposed.

My biggest regret right now? Why I'd chosen these red thong panties this morning out of all my underwear.

"Oh... I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to." Chloe said carelessly, hands spread. "But I guess maybe you're just too fat and stretched the dress out. Otherwise, how could one little step from me tear it?"

"Chloe—" I stared at that innocent, vicious face, shaking with rage.

"Oh my God..." Whispers rose from below. Flashes went off.

I reached to cover this ridiculous, humiliating scene, but unfortunately, that only made me look more pathetic. This was completely unexpected—or rather, no one could have predicted I'd create a joke at a wedding that people would remember for twenty years.

My head felt heavy. I wanted to crawl into a crack in the floor. Let me do it, please. My vision blurred.

Just as despair was about to consume me, those whispers and laughs grew quieter and quieter until they stopped. Something in the air shifted. I struggled to lift my head and found everyone's attention had moved off me, toward the entrance.

My gaze focused on the center of that oppressive presence.

A man stood there in a perfectly tailored suit, tall and powerful, his silver-gray hair trimmed just right. He looked somewhere between forty and fifty—past the recklessness and immaturity of youth, but not old enough to have lost his appeal.

He deserved everyone's attention, because he was the kind of person who made everything else fade.

And right now, he was walking toward the ceremony platform. Toward me, specifically. I could tell the guests respected him—feared him, even. When he passed near the people who'd been laughing, they instinctively stood up.

When he stopped in front of me, I held my breath without meaning to. Without a word, he removed his jacket and gently draped it over me. The length easily covered my exposed lower half. His cedar scent immediately filled my nose. I was hooked instantly.

"You all right?" His deep voice wrapped around me completely.

That rough, uniquely Russian-accented voice effortlessly announced his authority and power.

I looked into those deep steel-gray eyes, speechless.

God, he was absolutely the most handsome, perfect man I'd ever seen. Makar didn't even compare. Light fell across his face like it was hitting a sculpture. His high cheekbones were aggressive, his nose a clean arc—classically rugged and beautiful.