Oath of Fire (Bound By Blood #2)
Chapter 1
The lace digs into my ribs like punishment.
Every delicate stitch, every flower woven into the fabric of the corset, feels like another thread tightening the cage around my breath, my will, my entire future.
The garment, chosen days ago, is ivory silk with painstaking silver embroidery, hand-stitched by a designer whose name I have never heard and who certainly never asked my opinion.
My mother says it makes me look like porcelain.
Untouched. Perfect. The word feels less like a compliment and more like a sentence—a beautiful, fragile cage designed to contain something dangerous.
My cousin, Sasha, pins the final, heavy curl of my hair into place. She murmurs that I look beautiful, her voice hushed with awe and pity. I force a smile because it’s expected, because Volkov women do not frown, not even on the day they are given away like a title deed.
The gown glitters beneath the crystal chandelier, heavy with thousands of tiny, colorless stones I didn’t choose, adding literal weight to the burden of my duty.
Even the veil feels foreign. It hides my face, shielding the witnesses from the flicker of terror and resentment I can’t quite extinguish.
“You will make our family proud, Dochka.”
My father’s voice echoes in my head, a command wrapped in the thinnest veneer of endearment.
That conversation plays on a vicious loop, as if my mind wants to torture me with the finality of my fate one last time. It was a week ago, in his office. The air was thick with stale cigar smoke and the suffocating presence of his power.
I’d sat across from him on the edge of an enormous leather sofa, hands folded neatly in my lap like a schoolgirl waiting for punishment. I learned years ago that stillness was the only armor I had.
“A marriage has been arranged,” he said, lighting his cigar with a gold lighter without sparing me a glance.
The glow from the flame illuminated the hard lines of his focus.
“Don Dante Moretti wishes to strengthen the bond between our families, to ensure the peace we paid dearly for remains unbroken. You will marry his underboss, Alessandro Moretti.”
My pulse had stumbled, a visceral reaction I instantly regretted allowing. I cleared my throat, forcing the question out, knowing how foolish it sounded. “I don’t even know him. I don't know anything about him.”
His eyes, cold and blue as the Arctic sea, finally found mine. “You don’t need to. You need only to obey him. Your job is to be the perfect counterweight to his power, to provide stability and a son, if required. Nothing else.”
“And if he is unkind, or—”
His gaze cut to me, sharp and dismissive, silencing the thought before it could fully form.
“He is a man of loyalty and power, Elena. That is all you need to know. You will honor him. You will bend to his will, as your mother bends to mine. That is how peace survives, and that is how the Volkov name remains secure.”
That was the moment something inside me withered and hardened at the same time. The last vestige of hope—the foolish fantasy of a normal life, a chosen love, a career—retreated deep beneath my skin.
I’d heard of Alessandro Moretti before—hushed whispers at parties, men lowering their voices when they spoke of Dante’s shadow.
The loyal one. The weapon in a tailored suit.
The kind of man whose devotion could save or destroy empires.
The unbreakable right hand. A soldier trained to serve, not to love.
And now he would be my husband.
My mother steps back now, adjusting the veil with trembling fingers. She avoids my eyes, looking instead at the shimmer of the gown. “You will be safe, Elena. The Morettis are powerful. Dante is respected. You will live in luxury. You will want for nothing.”
Her voice cracks on the word safe, and for the first time, I wonder if she is trying to convince me, or herself. She is the blueprint for my life—a beautiful ornament, cherished but never free.
Then the door opens, and my father fills the room. Viktor Volkov doesn’t knock. He never has to. His presence demands silence, and we give it freely. The air instantly thickens with his authority.
He looks at me, his eyes running over the ivory silk and the careful artistry of my hair.
There is pride, but it feels like ownership, like valuing a flawless piece of property.
“Remember your place, Dochka. You are the bridge between two great families. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will listen to your husband and obey him. You will not cause problems that will embarrass our name or weaken this alliance. Do you understand?”
I nod. I always nod. The motion is small, practiced. Because disobedience has never been an option—it’s been a dangerous, childish fantasy. I am the daughter of the Pakhan. My existence is a strategic asset.
He studies me a moment longer, his lips curving into a smile like a man who’s just sealed a lucrative deal. “Good. The alliance depends on your obedience. On you being the perfect, docile wife. Don’t shame me.”
He leaves without waiting for an answer, his silence a final, heavy command.
The chapel smells like roses. The grand, cathedral-style space is beautiful, opulent, and utterly cold.
The music begins and the carved oak doors of the chapel open. Every head turns. The collective sound of two hundred powerful people shifting focus is a physical wave.
The aisle stretches ahead of me like a verdict. It is the last straight line I will walk as Elena Volkov. My heart beats frantically in my throat, a tiny, terrified drum.
I walk because I’m told to walk. I count the steps, focusing on the simple, repetitive motion: heel to marble, heel to marble, veil trembling with each shallow breath. My father walks beside me, his arm a steel bar pressed against mine, ensuring I neither falter nor look away.
At the end of the aisle stands the man who will own my name, my body, and my future.
Alessandro Moretti.
He’s taller than I expected, broader too, the kind of powerful, contained presence that fills a room without trying to dominate it. He is dressed in a dark, flawless suit—midnight blue wool so fine it absorbs the light—with a tie the color of expensive, dried blood.
He is handsome in a severe, unforgiving way.
His hair is dark, cut short and neat, framing a face dominated by a strong jaw and high cheekbones.
His eyes are dark, focused on the altar stone, completely ignoring the fanfare, completely ignoring me.
I search for a flicker of nervousness, pity, or even curiosity.
There is nothing. Only unwavering stillness.
A faint scar cuts across his jaw, a thin, white line that catches the chapel light. He is a predator in a tailored suit, and he is entirely uninterested in his prey.
He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Not when I stop before him. Not when my father places my hand in his—a cold, firm transfer of ownership. Not when the priest begins to speak the ancient, beautiful language of the ceremony.
The ceremony is short, brutal in its efficiency. The words blur together. My vows, his vows, the murmured approval of two powerful families pretending this is love, pretending this is a choice.
Then comes the final, physical act of possession. He slides the ring onto my finger—a thick band of platinum and perfect diamonds. It's a perfect fit, of course, like every other decision made for me. The weight of it settles instantly, heavy and final.
When the priest declares us bound, the world feels utterly silent, save for the blood rushing in my ears. Alessandro leans close enough that his breath ghosts against my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine. His voice is a low, quiet rasp, barely audible beneath the sudden, rushing applause.
“You’ll do as you’re told, Mrs. Moretti.”
It’s the first time he's spoken to me. It's not a vow; it's an instruction.
Then he kisses my cheek instead of my lips, a gesture so polite, so utterly devoid of heat or emotion, that it burns worse than a blow. It is the kiss of a partner, a colleague, a strategist—not a husband.
The crowd roars its applause. My father smiles, satisfied.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the suffocating layers of ivory silk and practiced submission, the spark of something small, furious, and fiercely disobedient ignites.