Vows for the Bratva Bride (Bratva Vows #3)

Prologue

Maksim

Kira's skin tastes like heaven. I can't get enough of her. My hands tangle in her dark hair as she straddles me, her body moving in that rhythm we've perfected over the stolen nights of the past year.

She's everything—fire and ice, softness and steel. When she arches her back, head thrown in abandon, I think I might actually believe in something divine.

"Maksim," she breathes my name.

It’s a prayer and a curse at the same time. I pull her down to capture her mouth with mine.

We're in the penthouse apartment I keep separate from family business, the one place in Moscow where we can just be Maksim and Kira instead of heirs to rival empires. The city lights sprawl beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I only have eyes for her.

These moments between us are hard to manage, but when we do, there’s no time for thoughts about being careful. Or even daring to say the words that would kill us both.

Ending our relationship would be too much.

Her nails rake down my tattooed chest and the scars earned from a life of danger. She traces each scar like she's memorizing a map, and when she looks at me with those icy blue eyes gone molten with desire, I know I'd burn the whole damn world for her.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her, including defying my family. I’m her Romeo, and she’s my little Juliet, worth losing everything. Honestly, I’ll run away from her in a heartbeat and hide in the smallest village in Africa if that’s what it takes to be with her.

"I love you," I tell her, gripping her hips as we move together. "God help me, Kira, I love you so fucking much."

She leans down, her hair creating a curtain around our faces. "Then marry me already, Barinov. I'm tired of sneaking around."

I flip her onto her back, relishing her surprised laugh, and pin her wrists above her head. "Is that a proposal, Markov?"

"Maybe." Her smile is wicked, teasing. "Think you can handle being tied to me for life?"

I thrust deep, swallowing her gasp with a kiss. "I'm already tied to you. Have been since the moment you walked into that negotiation meeting and told my father his terms were shit."

"They were shit," she manages, wrapping her legs around my waist. "You're just lucky I find you marginally more competent than—oh, fuck—"

I don't let her finish the sentence. We lose ourselves in each other, in this perfect moment where nothing else exists. When we finally tumble over the edge together, she cries out my name. I bury my face in her neck, breathing in her scent like it's oxygen.

Afterwards, we lie tangled in silk sheets, her head on my chest, my fingers trailing lazy patterns down her spine. The Moscow night pulses outside, but in here, we've carved out something sacred.

"I talked to my father today," I say quietly. "About us."

She tenses slightly. "And?"

"And I told him I'm marrying you regardless of his blessing, but it would be better for both families if he got on board." I press a kiss to her hair. "He's considering it. Your family's territory would strengthen our southern operations, and—"

"I don't give a fuck about territory," Kira interrupts, propping herself up to look at me.

"I care about you. Why do we have to take over the family business? I don’t want to have anything to do with the bratva.

I want you and me and a dozen babies. I want to have a garden and write stories while you build furniture with these very capable hands. "

My heart does something complicated in my chest. It’s a dream that we both know will never come true. Our families are rivals. But we both know my bratva family is far bigger and stronger than hers.

I’m not supposed to love her. In my family’s eyes, she’s not good enough.

They’re wrong. She’s too good.

And I love her with every cell in my body. Every fiber. Every inch of me belongs to her and her to me.

"I know, solnyshko. But we can have both. Love and power. We'll unite our families, build something stronger than either organization alone." I cup her face, running my thumb along her cheekbone. "We'll rule this city together."

Her eyes search mine. I see the fierce intelligence that first captivated me. She's not just beautiful—she's brilliant, strategic, absolutely ruthless when necessary. My perfect match.

"Your father will never agree," she says softly. "Mine either. They've been rivals too long."

"Then we'll make them agree." I pull her back down against me. "I'm not giving you up, Kira. Not for anyone or anything. If they won't bless it, we'll force their hands."

She continues running her fingertips over the tattoo that is for her.

It’s her birth year over my heart. To anyone else, the numbers mean nothing, but we know.

Under the numbers is the word, vernost—devotion.

My thumb rubs over the spot on the inside of her wrist with the matching word.

It’s our way of acknowledging our love without anyone else in our lives knowing.

Our secret is deadly.

But I want to bring it to the light.

"We'd need leverage,” she says. “Something that makes our union too valuable to refuse."

"I'm working on it." I've already started laying the groundwork, making strategic moves that will demonstrate how powerful our combined forces could be. "Give me three months. By winter, I'll have a ring on your finger and our families united."

"So confident," she murmurs, but I hear the hope threading through her voice.

"I've never been more certain of anything." I tilt her chin up, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes. "You're mine, Kira Markov. And I'm yours. That's not changing. Ever. I will die for you. I will have you. You already have me."

She kisses me then, slow and deep, and I taste forever in it.

We make love again, slower this time, savoring every touch.

When she finally drifts off in my arms, I lie awake watching her sleep, memorizing every detail.

The way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.

The slight smile that curves her lips even in dreams. The possessive way she clings to me, even when unconscious.

Mine. All mine.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand around midnight. I carefully extract myself from Kira's embrace and check the message. It's from Dmitri, my second-in-command.

Need you for the Volkov meeting. Midnight. Warehouse 7.

I frown. We weren't supposed to meet with the Volkovs until next week. But the message uses the correct codes, and Dmitri knows not to disturb me here unless it's critical.

Kira stirs as I dress. "Maksim?"

"Business," I tell her, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I'll be back in a few hours."

She sits up, sheets pooling around her waist. Even now, I'm distracted by how gorgeous she is. "At midnight?"

"Volkov situation. Dmitri says it's urgent." I pull on my jacket, checking that my gun is secure in its holster. "Go back to sleep, solnyshko. I'll wake you when I return, and we can have breakfast together."

She catches my hand, suddenly serious. "Be careful."

"Always am." I kiss her properly this time, pouring everything I feel into it. "I love you."

"I love you too." She releases me reluctantly. "Come back to me."

"Nothing could keep me away."

I should have known those words would come back to haunt me.

The drive to the warehouse takes twenty minutes through mostly empty Moscow streets. It's an older facility on the outskirts of our territory, one we use for sensitive meetings away from prying eyes. My instincts prickle as I approach—something feels off, though I can't identify what.

The warehouse looks abandoned, which is normal. We keep it that way deliberately. I park my car and check my phone again. No new messages from Dmitri.

I should turn around. Every combat instinct I've honed since childhood is screaming at me to leave, but I ignore it. Dmitri wouldn't summon me without cause, and the Volkov situation is delicate. We're negotiating a truce that could prevent a bloody territorial war.

I enter through the side door, gun drawn but lowered. "Dmitri?"

The warehouse is dark except for a single light in the center of the vast space. I move toward it carefully, scanning shadows, every sense on alert.

"Dmitri, if this is some kind of—"

They come out of nowhere.

The first blow catches me across the back of my skull. I stumble forward, vision exploding in a million stars. I spin, firing at the shadow behind me, but there are more—so many more. Hands grab my arms; my weapon is torn away. I'm fighting, using every brutal technique I know.

I take down two before something crashes into my ribs. Another hit to my head. I taste blood.

"Maksim Barinov," a voice says in accented Russian. Not one I recognize. "The Bratva prince falls."

I try to see who's speaking, but a hood is yanked over my head. Zip ties bite into my wrists. I'm still fighting, still struggling, but there are too many of them.

"My family will hunt you down,” I grit out. “You're dead men."

Someone laughs. "Your family will think the Markovs betrayed you. And your precious Kira?" The voice grows closer, breath hot against my ear through the hood. "She arranged this. She wants you dead.”

Terror ices through my veins. There’s no way. Kira would never do this.

"No," I growl, thrashing harder. "No, you’re lying—"

Pain explodes through my body as something electric makes contact. I convulse, muscles seizing, and the world tilts sideways.

The last thing I think before darkness takes me is Kira's face, the way she looked sleeping in my arms just an hour ago, and the promise I made that I can't keep.

Come back to me.

Was she lying? Did Kira set this up?

The thoughts refuse to register in my bruised brain. Before I can give them too much attention, I feel another blow to the side of my head. I realize I’m dying.

I’ll never marry Kira. We’ll never have those babies she wants.

Then there's nothing but black.