Page 65 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
I’d just never seen it fully unleashed before.
The evening continues. Janice handles introductions with surprising grace, navigating conversations about business and territory with more understanding than I expected. People respond to her not just because she’s my wife, but because she commands attention in her own right.
By the time dinner is announced, she’s made more positive impressions than some members born into this life.
I’m contemplating how to leverage that when I see him.
A man approaches Janice while I’m momentarily distracted by Oleg. He’s mid-thirties, wearing an expensive suit and a too-familiar smile.
I watch Janice’s expression shift—surprise, then recognition, then warmth that makes my blood freeze.
She knows him.
They’re talking now, his body language too comfortable, too easy. He gestures animatedly, making her laugh, and she touches his arm in return.
Then he leans in for a hug.
Something dark and violent erupts in my chest.
I’m across the room before conscious thought catches up, my hand closing around the man’s collar, yanking him backward with force that nearly lifts him off his feet.
“Dimitri!” Janice’s voice is shocked and angry.
I ignore her. My attention stays fixed on the man now stumbling, confused and terrified.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“Just an old friend.”
“You thought putting your hands on my wife was appropriate?”
“We were just—it was just a hug.”
“You’re nothing.” I shove him backward, and he catches himself against a nearby table. Glasses rattle. Conversations die. “You don’t touch her. You don’t approach her. You don’t exist in the same space as her unless I permit it. Are we clear?”
The man nods frantically, already backing away.
“Dimitri, stop.” Janice’s hand on my arm, trying to pull me back. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong!”
“He touched you.”
“He hugged me! We worked together for months.”
“I don’t care.” I turn to face her, aware that everyone is watching, aware that I’m making a scene. Don’t care about that either. “No man touches what’s mine. Not friends. Not former colleagues. No one.”
Her eyes flash with fury. “I amnotproperty.”
“In this world? Yes, you are. My property. My wife. Mine.” I lower my voice, only for her. “Everyone here needs to understand that. Especially men who think familiarity gives them permission.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being clear.”
The man has disappeared into the crowd. Smart man. If he’d stayed, I might have done something that couldn’t be walked back.
Janice stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she doesn’t. This is the side of me she’s seen hints of but never fully experienced—the possessive violence that comes with genuine threat.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
