Chapter 6 – Adrian
The ceremony has already begun.
Candles flicker in the corners of the Rusnak estate chapel, their glow dancing over the black-stoned walls and polished wooden pews.
It’s quiet, reverent—like death. Or devotion.
The place smells like smoke and flowers.
Black dahlias spill from every corner, curling like dark velvet against marble and iron.
I stand at the altar in a suit that costs more than some people’s homes, custom-cut to wrap my body like armor. I feel the weight of every eye in the room—Bratva leaders, trusted men, killers dressed in fine wool and sharp silk. But I’m not thinking about any of them.
I’m only thinking about her.
And then—
The doors open.
She steps in.
My chest tightens.
Jennie walks in slowly, alone, a storm of velvet and lace. Her dress is black—like mourning, like power—and it fits her like it was sewn onto her skin. Strapless, delicate at the top, then cascading down into shadows. Her hair’s swept back, her shoulders bare, her eyes down.
But then—she looks up.
And her gaze crashes into mine like a blow.
I swear I stop breathing.
She’s walking straight toward me, toward the altar, toward a life neither of us asked for, but I chose. Her lips are pressed tight, chin tilted high like she’s forcing herself to be brave, but I can see the fear swimming in her eyes.
She’s shaking. Just slightly. But she’s walking anyway.
Beside her, Zoe and Violet rise from their seats. The only guests who matter. I let Violet in for Jennie’s sake—because I’ve watched them enough to know she’d want her there. The rest of the chapel is filled with people who wouldn’t flinch at blood.
Lukin stands to my left, silent, unreadable. Arseny is behind him. Kaz, my best friend, leans against a column, smirking faintly like he’s watching his favorite soap opera unfold. Zalar stands near the back, hands clasped, waiting for my next command.
But none of them exist.
Not in this moment.
All I see is Jennie.
My bride.
The woman I’ve waited a year to touch.
Her body is wrapped in midnight. Her lips are red. Her eyes are wet, but her chin doesn’t drop. I’ve broken warlords faster than she’s breaking now.
And still—she walks.
Still—she comes to me.
My fingers curl at my sides as she nears the altar. I ache to touch her. To claim her. To drag my knuckles along her cheek and brand her mouth with my name.
She stops a few feet from me.
I want to say something. I don’t. I just stare.
Because in all my life, in all the blood, in all the war—I’ve never wanted anything the way I want her.
And now…she’s mine.
Whether she understands it or not.
Whether she likes it or not.
She’s mine. Fuck. It feels good to hear that in my head.
She stands beside me now.
Close enough that I can hear her breath hitch.
Close enough that I could reach for her hand, lace my fingers with hers like a real groom would.
But I don’t.
I don’t smile. I don’t soothe. I don’t play pretend.
I’m not that kind of man.
The officiant begins the ceremony—an older Bratva elder whose voice scrapes like gravel against stone. He speaks in Russian. Jennie doesn’t understand the words, but I do. I make sure the vows are exact, legal by our code, binding in a way no government paper could ever be.
She shifts beside me, nerves coiled like wires under her skin. I can feel her fear bleeding into the space between us, soaking into the air like smoke. But she doesn’t run.
God, she’s brave.
Or stupid.
Maybe both.
The elder turns to me first. I give my vow without hesitation.
“Da,” I say. “Yes. I take her.”
There’s a murmur behind us. Lukin. Kaz. Zalar.
Then the elder turns to her.
Jennie blinks, startled. She barely hears him until I nudge her hand.
She swallows, voice trembling as she echoes back, “Yes. I take him.”
It’s done.
But I don’t reach for her.
I don’t kiss her.
Instead, I step in close enough for only her to hear and say, low and cold:
“You are mine now.”
No flourish. No tenderness. Just truth. Just victory. Her breath catches again. I don’t care if it’s from fear, hatred, or regret.
The ceremony ends here. No applause. No music.
Just a heavy silence broken by the rustle of movement as people begin to file out.
Zoe and Violet appear like shadows, sweeping Jennie away before she even has a chance to glance back. She hesitates for a moment, like she might, but then Violet links their arms, and they disappear down the side aisle.
I don’t follow.
I just watch.
Her dark brown hair swings against the velvet of her dress. Her shoulders are tense. Her spine’s still straight.
Good girl.
“Can’t take your eyes off her for a second, huh?” Lukin murmurs beside me, voice low, amused.
Kaz chuckles on my other side. “He looks like he’s in love. I can’t tell. Could also be gas.”
I shoot him a look that would make most men piss themselves.
Kaz just winks.
Lukin smirks. “Relax. We’re happy for you. Sort of.”
“I’m not in the mood for lectures from either of you,” I mutter, adjusting my cuff. “I should take my bride home.”
“To chain her up or fuck her stupid?” Kaz says, deadpan.
Lukin actually chokes. “Jesus, Kaz.”
“What? It’s a valid question.”
I push past them, jaw tight. If Kaz weren’t my best friend, he’d be dead for making such jokes about my wife. He should know better.
I don’t like the way her friends are touching her.
Zoe’s hand is curled too tightly around Jennie’s wrist, and Violet’s linked their arms again like they can form some kind of shield between my wife and me.
Like I’m the danger.
I am.
But that’s not the point.
She belongs to me now.
As I approach them, Zoe whispers something in Jennie’s ear, while Violet starts looking at me like she’s ready to punch a hole through me.
I bite back an evil smile. I can wipe her off the surface of the earth, and no one would ask it of me.
She’s the most vulnerable one here. Jennie belongs to me.
Zoe belongs to Lukin. She’s alone and unprotected.
I finally reach them and plaster a fake smile on my face. “I’ll take it from here.”
Zoe straightens, her expression calm but her eyes flashing. “She needs a moment.”
“No.”
That’s it. That’s all I say.
Violet’s jaw tightens, like she’s about to argue, but Zoe’s smarter. She presses her lips into a tight line and pulls her friend back.
“She’s not a prisoner,” Violet snaps.
I look her dead in the eye. “She’s my wife.”
Jennie doesn’t say a word. Her gaze flickers between us, wide and unreadable.
Good.
She follows me without protest. I open the car door and guide her in with a hand on the small of her back—barely a touch, but she shivers anyway.
Zalar pulls the door shut behind us and takes the driver’s seat.
I don’t look back.
Jennie sits silently beside me, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her wedding dress glows like midnight, and I can smell the faint trace of her perfume even above the clean leather interior.
I should say something. Maybe something calm. Reassuring.
But I don’t.
Instead, I settle back into the seat, stretch my arm across the top of the bench behind her, and say only two words:
“Home, Zalar.”
And the car pulls away.
We arrive at the estate just past dusk.
The staff waits by the doors like statues. Silent. Still. Respectful.
I don’t acknowledge any of them.
Jennie walks in ahead of me, her velvet dress trailing behind her like spilled ink. She doesn’t wait—just starts toward the staircase like she’s lived here all her life, like she still has a say in where she goes or sleeps.
She doesn’t.
“Jennie,” I say calmly, standing at the bottom of the stairs.
She pauses.
“You’re no longer using the guest room,” I tell her. “You use my room.”
She whips around so fast I can see the fury crack through her like lightning. “You must be sick in the head if you think I’ll sleep in the same room with you.” Her voice rises. “You’re fucking insane.”
The words hit harder than they should.
But not harder than I hit back.
I take the first two steps slowly, then the rest in quick, angry strides. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again,” I growl, voice low and deadly. “I’ll show you what an insane man does.”
She tries to bolt.
Too slow.
I catch her before she clears the landing, sweeping her off her feet like a ragdoll, ignoring her shrieks and fists beating at my chest.
She screams.
She hits me.
It doesn’t matter.
Her fists are soft. Her voice is sweet, even when it’s screaming.
I carry her up the stairs without breaking pace. Past the hallway. Past the guest rooms. All the way to the west wing. My wing.
Her fight is wild but clumsy, burning out as I push open the door to my bedroom and walk inside.
Black silk sheets. Dark gray walls. A fire flickering low in the hearth.
I toss her onto the bed like she weighs nothing. She bounces once on the mattress and scrambles up, eyes wide, breathing hard.
“You bastard!” she spits. “You actual psycho—”
“This isn’t a honeymoon,” I cut her off. My voice is quiet. Cold. Unapologetic. “I’m not going to waste time worrying about your happiness.”
She stands on the bed now—barefoot, wild-eyed, her fists clenched at her sides like she’s preparing for a war she can’t possibly win.
“The only reason you’re here,” I continue, stepping back toward her, “is to be mine. You will learn to please me, Jennie. In every way.”
Her mouth parts in disbelief.
I wait for the tears.
I want them.
I want her to cry, to break, so I can walk away before I do something worse. But she doesn’t cry.
She rips the veil off her head and throws it to the floor like it’s poisoned.
“I will never please you,” she spits, her voice shaking with rage. “I would rather die.”
My jaw tightens.
“I married you to save my brother, not because I wanted to be your fucking pet. I hate you. You’re disgusting. You’re evil. You should rot in hell.”
The words land like open-handed slaps.
But I see past them.
Past the fire in her tone and the tremble in her fingers.
She’s terrified.