Page 74 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

The drive back to the penthouse is silent.

I keep my arm around Vera, feeling the slight tremble of her body against mine. She’s exhausted. I can see it in the pallor of her skin and the shadows beneath her eyes. The events of the evening have taken their toll, and she’s running on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness.

When we reach the building, Artyom pulls into the underground garage and kills the engine. I help Vera out of the car, keeping my hand on the small of her back as we walk to the elevator.

Oksana must have gone home hours ago, and the security team is recovering in the hospital. Konstantin was kind enough not to kill them, but they won’t be up and about any time soon.

The only light comes from the city outside, casting long shadows across the floor.

Vera stands in the middle of the living room with her arms wrapped around herself, looking lost. The wedding dress hangs off her frame, the elaborate beading and lace seeming absurd in the quiet of the penthouse.

She looks beautiful, and utterly destroyed.

“You need to sleep,” I say.

She nods, but doesn’t move. Her eyes are distant, as if she’s still standing at that altar.

“Vera.” I step closer, tilting her chin up so she’s looking at me. “You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you.”

“I know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I just... I can’t believe that happened.” She looks at me. “Are we actually married?”

“We are.” I brush a strand of hair back from her face. “As of tonight, you’re my wife. Tomorrow, we’ll take care of the paperwork and make it legal.”

She shivers at the word, and I can’t tell if it’s from cold or something else.

“You’re staying in my room tonight,” I say. It’s not a question.

She holds my gaze. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not tonight.”

She hesitates for a moment, then nods.

I lead her down the hallway to my bedroom, pushing open the door and guiding her inside. The room is dark, but I don’t turn on the lights. Instead, I move to the closet and pull out one of my t-shirts, handing it to her without a word.

She takes it and disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water running, followed by the sounds of her getting changed.

I use the time to strip off the priest’s robes and change into something more comfortable.

When she emerges, my t-shirt hangs past her thighs, the neckline slipping off one shoulder.

“Roman,” she says, and her voice has a different quality now. Husky.

I cross the room in three strides and pull her into my arms. My mouth finds hers, kissing her with all the pent-up emotion of the evening. She responds in kind, pulling me closer.

I walk her backward toward the bed. My hand finds its way under the hem of the t-shirt, finding bare skin. She gasps against my mouth and I swallow the sound.

We fall onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and heated breath. I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast above the neckline. She makes a sound that goes straight to my groin, her hands tangling in my hair.

“Roman,” she breathes again, and this time her voice is thick with desire. “Please.”

I want to give her everything she’s asking for. I need to make her forget the hours before I reached her.

Except I feel the slight tremor in her hands, so I pull back.

“Don’t stop.”

“You’re exhausted.” I brush a kiss across her forehead. “You’ve been through hell tonight. You need to rest.”