Page 13 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride
Anton drains his glass, and says, “You are terrifying when you decide something.”
“You say that often,” I reply flatly.
“’Cause it’s the truth.”
There’s a shift in the air as murmurs increase and then dissolve into an awed hush. Even before I move my head to see what’s up, I can sense her.
Zara enters, wearing an ivory dress, its ends trailing behind her on the floor. It’s simple, with the barest lace detailing but her curvaceous figure and bronze skin makes it look elegant. If I was one of those romantic men, I’d compare her to a goddess or the moon.
Her squared jaw and tense shoulders, hands balled into fists, are nothing like that of a bride. Resistance remains alive in every inch of her, alive in the rigid line of her spine.
She stands beside Alina, who offers silent support. Alina understands something most people do not: support is not always comfort. Sometimes support means simply letting things be.
Anton straightens, which is rare for a careless man like him to do.
Interesting.
Nikolai’s gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly as Sergei watches her thoughtfully. Men accustomed to power recognize dangerous intelligence quickly.
Zara’s brown eyes land on me, fearless and calm, even with the residual anger behind it all. She stops in front of me.
“You look disturbingly calm,” she murmurs, low enough for only me to hear.
“You’re here.”
The corner of her mouth tightens.
“Like I can be anywhere else…?”
Anton makes a strangled noise that suspiciously resembles laughter and Alina elbows him without looking.
Zara does not react at all, eyes fixed on me flatly.
The ceremony begins with the officiant clearing his throat.
Legal language fills the room, each sentence reducing something as complex as marriage into enforceable clauses and witnessed declarations. Most people need romance to tolerate how transactional this shit truly is. I am not one of them.
My eyes remain fixed on Zara, how she does not soften at all.
When the officiant asks whether she understands the legal implications of marriage, her eyes flash with something sharp and incendiary.
“I understand them perfectly,” she answers in a voice that’s iron covered in velvet.
When he asks whether she consents, the air pressure drops. Zara inhales slowly, calculative brown eyes meeting mine.
There can be entire conversations held with just the eyes when both people understand observation as warfare. I can see her fury, the resistance that lives and breathes inside her. I know she is already thinking beyond this moment, already searching for exits.
“Yes,” she states flatly.
The officiant turns to me, visibly more nervous now.
“Mikhail Korovin, do you take—”
“I do.”
He pauses, blinking.
Anton coughs into his fist to hide amusement. The speed with which I sign my name onto the document is unparalleled when compared to the hesitant and forceful way Zara holds her pen to sign, the tip pressing into the paper harder than what is necessary.
