100 Days to Ruin Me (Mark by Malikov #1)

Mary

Ahundred days ago, I was ugly-crying over the douchebag who dumped me with a text. Spoiler: best mistake of my life.

Today, I married Anton Malikov.

And I’m already almost through my first trimester — eleven weeks of swollen boobs, nausea, and zero chance of pretending this isn’t real.

I sign my name on the dotted line, the pen shaking slightly between my fingers.

Now, before you start picturing some mafia-forced-contract type of deal, let me clear that up. This isn’t that.

This is just your standard “got drunk after a breakup, broke into best friend's apartment, drunk-groped a dangerously hot Bratva enforcer, and now I’m carrying his baby and somehow stupidly in love with him” kind of situation.

Mary Malikov.

My signature looks tiny next to his. Anton Malikov.

Even his letters look dangerous.

The ceremony isn’t in a courthouse. It isn’t in a church. It’s in his house.

Our house.

Outside, in the courtyard carved into desert stone, Anton has turned the night into something out of a gothic fairytale.

Torches burn in wrought-iron sconces, throwing shadows across marble statues older than Vegas itself.

A canopy of black silk stretches overhead, catching the wind like sails.

Roses—blood-red and white—spill from tall silver urns, their scent tangled with cigar smoke and gun oil.

And it’s not just his men watching. They’re all here.

The families that own pieces of this city, the Bratva and their allies, the ones whose names never appear on paper but whose fingerprints cover every dollar that moves.

Silent, sharp-eyed, waiting. Witnesses to the fact that Anton Malikov just claimed me.

And on my hand? A five-carat pink diamond, the kind whispered about in Vogue spreads and royal scandals. Anton slid it on without asking my size. Of course it fit. Of course it glittered like it belonged there.

In the corner of the courtyard, Lev is leaning against a column, shamelessly flirting with the poor violinist hired to make this thing sound classy.

“Play something dirtier,” he tells her. She looks confused. He looks delighted.

Dima stands near the gate, back straight, eyes scanning the rooftops like he expects a sniper in the stucco. Boris has commandeered a carved stone bench and is typing furiously into his phone, probably hacking the mansion’s own cameras because he gets bored if he’s not committing light treason.

My grandmother sits in the front row, cardigan buttoned like armor, hands folded in her lap.

She’s small in the chair but enormous in my life—eyes bright and steady today, like she’s decided not to let the dizzy spells win.

She smiles at me in a way that feels like a blessing and a dare all at once.

Next to her, Jasper is a Milan runway disaster dropped into a mob wedding. Perfect hair, crossed legs, the attitude of someone judging both the décor and my life choices at the same time.

He doesn’t need to say anything. He just tilts his head, eyes locking with mine across the aisle, and I know exactly what he’s about to pull. Our whole friendship has been built on these silent conversations—one look, and I hear him clear as day.

His brows lift, lips barely moving as he pantomimes the words: “If he murders you, I will avenge you.”

Then, because he’s Jasper, he commits to the bit—flipping through an imaginary Rolodex on his knee like he’s scrolling Yelp for hitmen. His eyes cut back to mine, glittering, and the look that follows is unmistakable: “Just so we’re clear.”

I almost snort right there at the altar. A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it, and I shake my head gently, the tiniest movement, like I’m telling him to behave. My eyes lift, dragged back to the man beside me.

Anton doesn’t look at Jasper. He doesn’t have to. His hand shifts, closing over mine where it rests against my belly, palm firm, fingers spreading slowly until I feel the press of his wedding band against my skin. A silent claim. A reminder of exactly what—and who—he owns now.

Heat flares through me, sharp and dizzying. My breath sticks in my throat.

His head dips just enough that only I hear it. “You look like the only thing worth surviving for.”

I don’t answer. Mostly because I can’t speak.

Because he’s real. Anton Malikov is real. And I just married him.

He stands like a carved statue beside me, cold and still, dressed in the kind of tailored suit that should be illegal on someone that lethal and hot. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Hair swept back like he didn’t even try—and still looks like a walking sin.

And he’s looking at me like he already owns every breath I’m about to take.

Maybe it’s not love. Maybe it’s obsession. Or madness. Or whatever you call it when your worst mistake also feels like your best decision.

But it feels like love.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that ruins you.

I shouldn’t want that. I should be terrified.

But instead, I’m drenched in it.

My grandma coughs gently, and I force my legs to work. The moment the papers are signed, Anton turns to face me fully.

His eyes—green and merciless—drag over my face, my lips, my belly. He hasn’t touched me in front of anyone. Not until now.

And when he does… God help me.

His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been starving for a hundred days, and I’m the only thing left in the world that tastes like salvation.

He claims me.

And I let him.

Hell, I want him to. Even if it ruins me.

His hand grips my waist, hard. The other tangles in my hair, tilting my head back like he owns me.

Somewhere behind us, Jasper lets out a strangled noise. “Oh my God, she’s gonna die happy. Grandma, look away.”

I barely hear him.

Because when Anton kisses me—God, when he kisses me—it’s not out of pity. It’s not polite. It’s a claim.

His mouth crashes into mine like he’s branding me from the inside out. It’s heat, hunger, devastation. His lips drag across mine, coaxing, then demanding. He bites—softly, then not so softly—until I gasp, and he takes that too.

He kisses me like he’s starving. Like I’m the only thing that’s ever shut off the noise in his head.

My fingers clutch his jacket for balance, knees weak, lungs useless. He presses me closer, and I feel all of him—hard muscle, sharper intent. There’s nothing gentle here. Nothing safe. Just fire and skin and the certainty that if this man ever lets me go, it won’t be because he forgot.

It’ll be because he’s finished.

There’s no space. No air.

Only us.

And when he finally pulls back, his eyes don’t soften.

They darken.

“This is Day One, Mary Malikov.”

He says it like it’s already written in stone.

And God help me, I love how it sounds.

Like a vow. Like the end of everything I used to be.

I nod. Or maybe I blink. I’m not sure.

All I know is… The old Mary—Mary Catherine Sullivan—died a hundred days ago. And this version? She just kissed her husband like she wasn’t terrified of what comes next.

And maybe that’s the scariest part of all.

All I know is this: A hundred days ago, I was invisible.

I was the “before” girl. The joke. The stepping stone to prettier sisters.

The one who covered for coworkers who left early and smiled while doing it.

The one who said "no problem" every time her boss dumped another last-minute report on her desk.

The one who got talked over in meetings and laughed at awkwardly, like she wasn’t part of the conversation.

The “you're so cool for a fat girl” compliments. The backup plans.

Today? I’m Mrs. Malikov. I’m carrying his child. And whatever I was before…

She’s dead.