Page 23 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

The woman looking back at me from the mirror is not a captive.

That is the first decision I make before the reception, before the car, before I let any of this world change me. I stand in front of the floor-length mirror in the dressing room of Mikhail’s New York penthouse and I make that decision like it’s a vow.

The dress I’ve chosen is deep emerald, the color of something expensive and unapologetic, with a structured bodice and a neckline that sits at the precise point between elegant and sexy. It moves like water, flows where it should and holds where it matters.

My jewelry is minimal and gold—two thin stacked rings, small earrings—because excess would look like effort, and I refuse to look like I am trying. My hair falls in dark, loose waves over one shoulder, and my eyeliner is sharp enough to draw blood.

If I have to stand in this world, I will stand in it looking like I chose to be here.

There is a knock at the door. One of Mikhail’s staff enters and sets a small envelope on the vanity table without meeting my eyes. The door closes softly behind him before I can ask a single question about where it came from.

The envelope has no name on it or a seal. I open it.

The handwriting inside is unhurried and precise, like someone who had all the time in the world to choose their words.

Stop looking for them. You won’t like what you find.

The paper stays in my hand for exactly ten seconds. Then I fold it back into the envelope, tuck it into the inner pocket of my small clutch, and return to the mirror.

The woman looking back at me has a pulse going too fast at the base of her throat. I force myself to take deep breaths, to quell the tremors running from my shoulders to wrist. Making my eyes impenetrable, I now know the note confirms two things I have been needing confirmed for weeks.

Someone is watching me closely enough to deliver a warning through Mikhail Korovin’s security perimeter. And whatever I’m getting close to is real enough to make that person nervous.

Both of those things should scare me more than they do.

The venue is the kind of place that doesn’t bother putting its name outside because the people who are meant to know the address already have it memorized. We arrive to a low, amber-lit room that stretches long and wide and hums with power.

The chandeliers overhead cast their light in warm, slow columns. The room is full of men in dark suits and women in dresses that cost more than my monthly rent, and every single one of them registers our arrival in the first ten seconds without visibly doing so.

Mikhail is at my side. He is consistently at my side tonight, and I feel the warmth emanating from him.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear it.

“Iambreathing,” I answer without looking at him.

“You’re cataloging threats.”

“Same thing.”

A ghost of a smirk lingers over his lips.

We move into the room and the crowd rearranges itself around us. A woman with ice-pale eyes and a red dress tracks mymovement as nonchalantly as she can, but I can see through it. A man in a charcoal suit near the bar watches Mikhail cautiously.

An older man with a silver beard and the bearing of someone who has never once been told no approaches us with his hand already extended. His accent is heavy and Eastern European and his handshake when he reaches Mikhail is straight up a dick-measuring contest.

“Mikhail.” His eyes move to me with blatant interest. “And this is the journalist.”

“My wife,” Mikhail says as non-aggressively as he can.

The man raises an eyebrow. “I heard about the wedding. I didn’t believe it.” His attention settles on me with the frank appraisal of a man who has never found women difficult to read and is finding out I’m more work than the average woman. “You must be remarkable.”

“I’m just observant,” I tell him.

He laughs a full belly laugh. “Careful, Mikhail. This one has teeth.”

“I know,” Mikhail says, and while his tone isn’t warm or full of pride exactly, it is something.

The man moves on. Another takes his place within minutes, then another. Introductions are assessments, pleasantries are really negotiations, and compliments are measurements. I know this language. I have reported from rooms that use the same grammar, even if the vocabulary is new.