Obsessive Vows (Bratva Vows #1)

1. Anastasia

1

ANASTASIA

F reedom tastes like expensive champagne and smells like Parisian night air—crisp with promise and sweet with possibility.

Unlike the stale, vodka-soaked atmosphere of Moscow's elite gatherings.

I've spent twenty-three years imagining this moment—standing alone on a hotel balcony, no bodyguards shadowing my movements, none of my father's operatives reporting my every word, no Bratva politics dictating my choices. Just me, Anastasia, without the leaden weight of "Markov" hanging from my name like a designer ball and chain.

The Paris night embraces me with gentle fingers, so different from Moscow's harsh grip. Here, the breeze carries laughter and music rather than whispered threats and cold, calculated silence. The lights shimmer like scattered diamonds. Here I can almost forget the watchful illumination of security cameras and posted guards.

I read somewhere that you can never truly know the shape of your cage until you step outside it. Basking in my freedom in Paris, I understand what that means. My cage wasn't just Moscow, wasn't just my father's mansion with its bulletproof windows and security protocols—the constant scent of gun oil and expensive cologne, the heaviness of unsaid rules hanging in the air. The cage has been built inside me all along—the constant, silent fear, the learned obedience, the reflexive calculation before every word and gesture.

Who might be watching? Who might report back? How will this affect Father's business? Will this displease him?

These thoughts circle my mind like faithful sentinels, even three thousand kilometers from Moscow, even when no one is watching.

Almost no one.

I lift the champagne to my lips, savoring the bright effervescence on my tongue, the delicate bubbles a counterpoint to the heavy Russian vodka that flows like water in my father's house. One week. That's what Father granted me—his grand benevolence, allowing his perfect, obedient daughter a single week of supervised freedom before... before whatever comes next. Before "the important matters we must discuss upon your return."

I know what those important matters will be. I've seen how he watches me lately, assessing, calculating. I'm twenty-three. Well past the age when most Bratva princesses are married off to cement alliances or expand territories.

He's been waiting. Waiting for the perfect bargaining chip, the perfect power play so my body, my name, my bloodline will yield the highest return.

The crystal flute trembles in my hand, and I set it down before I shatter it against the elegant iron railing. I won't think about Moscow tonight. Tonight belongs to me.

My phone buzzes against the glass tabletop—Father's name illuminating the screen like a warning flare. For three rings, I watch it vibrate, each buzz a small rebellion. No one makes Mikhail Markov wait. No one except, perhaps, his daughter, for these few stolen seconds.

On the fourth ring, I answer.

"Father." My voice shifts automatically into the perfect daughter's cadence—soft, respectful, controlled.

"Nastya." Static crackles between us, or perhaps it's just the sound of three thousand kilometers failing to dilute his authority. "You've arrived safely, I assume."

Not a question. A demand for confirmation.

"Yes, Father." I swirl the champagne, watching moonlight fragment through crystal and liquid. "The hotel is beautiful. Thank you for arranging it."

The lie comes easily. I booked this hotel myself, using one of the offshore accounts he doesn't know I know about. A meaningless rebellion, but mine, nonetheless.

"Good. Remember, this is a brief vacation only." His tone sharpens like a blade being honed. "You have responsibilities here. Important matters we must discuss upon your return."

The familiar weight settles back onto my shoulders, the yoke I've carried since my mother's death left me as his only family. The lonely heiress with a destiny she cannot escape.

Always duty. Always responsibilities. Always the suffocating burden of being a Markov. In Moscow, even the air feels heavier with it—laden with expectation, with history, with the metallic tang of power won through blood.

"Of course, Father. Just a week, as we agreed." Another lie. I’ve decided that I'll stay as long as I please. "Is there something specific we need to discuss?"

A pause. Ice clinks against crystal—his ever-present tumbler of vodka, no doubt. The sound triggers an involuntary shiver, a Pavlovian response to the countless nights I've heard that same clink before he delivered some new edict, some new restriction on my already limited freedom.

"Nothing that can't wait until you return. Enjoy Paris, Nastya. But remember who you are."

Markov. Bratva royalty. Your property.

The unspoken words hang between us, crossing borders and oceans.

"I won't forget, Father." That, at least, is true. I can never forget, even when I desperately want to.

"Good. Call me tomorrow." The line goes dead before I can respond.

I place the phone face-down on the table and drain my champagne in a single swallow, welcoming the burn. The ever-present ache between my shoulder blades intensifies—the phantom weight of expectations impossible to escape, even here.

Two days ago, in his study, I'd stood before him with my hands clasped behind my back to hide their trembling. The heavy scent of his cigars had filled the room, mingling with the leather of his chairs and the faint metallic smell that seemed to follow him everywhere—the scent of fear, perhaps, or power. Or blood.

"Paris? Alone?" he'd asked, as if I'd suggested swimming the Atlantic naked. "Absolutely not."

I'd stood my ground, a rare occurrence. "I'm twenty-three, Father. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked. Surely, I’ve earned this small reward."

"Age is irrelevant." He'd circled his massive oak desk, looming over me despite my height. The floorboards had creaked beneath his weight, each step a reminder of his physical dominance. "You are a Markov. There are people who would use you to get to me."

"I'll be careful. Low profile. No one will know who I am."

His laugh had been cold, dismissive. "You think our enemies don't watch? You think they don't recognize the daughter of Mikhail Markov, even in designer sunglasses?"

I'd switched tactics then, speaking his language. "Consider it a business trip. I can make contact with our French associates, strengthen those relationships."

"The French don't respect women in business." He'd waved away the idea like an annoying insect. "Especially not unmarried ones."

The barb had struck its target with perfect precision. At twenty-three, I remained conspicuously single, though not for lack of offers. Father had rejected every potential suitor as unworthy of the Markov bloodline—or more accurately, unworthy of the power that would come with claiming me.

"Then I'll go as a tourist. See the museums. Improve my French." I'd softened my voice, deploying the doe-eyed look that occasionally worked with him. "Please, Father. One week. I've never asked for anything like this before."

It was true. I'd been the perfect daughter, accepting every restriction, every demand, every sacrifice with outward grace. Harvard acceptance letter burned without being opened. Potential friendships severed the moment he deemed them unsuitable. Endless lessons in everything from economics to firearms, preparing me for a role I'd never wanted.

His silence had stretched, heavy with calculation.

"One week," he'd finally said. "You'll stay at the George V. I’ll see to it that Dmitri will?—"

"No." I'd interrupted him, something I never did. "No security detail. That defeats the purpose."

His eyes had narrowed dangerously. "The purpose?"

"Of appearing as a normal tourist. Bodyguards attract attention." I'd held my breath, watching his face for the signs of fury I knew too well—the slight whitening around his lips, the tightening of his jawline that preceded explosions that made grown men cower.

Instead, after a long moment, he'd nodded once. "One week. Daily check-ins. And when you return, Nastya, we have important matters to discuss about your future. Your biggest responsibility to this family."

The familiar dread had pooled in my stomach at those words, but I'd forced a smile. "Thank you, Father."

Now, standing on my balcony overlooking Paris, that dread resurfaces, expanding like a bloodstain. "Important matters" can only mean one thing—he's finally selected a husband for me. Some aging, brutal captain in his organization, or the son of a rival Bratva leader to cement an alliance. My body and bloodline, bartered like commodities on the black market he controls.

A memory surfaces, unbidden—my mother's face, pale and determined in the soft light of my childhood bedroom. I must have been twelve, just beginning to understand the world we inhabited. She had knelt before me, her jasmine perfume enveloping us in a private cocoon as she'd clasped my hands in hers.

"Listen carefully, Nastya," she'd whispered, her eyes darting to the door as if expecting interruption. "In our world, a woman's greatest weapon is not beauty or charm, but observation. Watch everything. Note the exits. Identify threats before they identify you. Your awareness may one day be all that stands between you and peril."

I'd nodded solemnly, not fully understanding then the weight of her warning. Only years later, after the "accident" that took her life, did I realize she'd been preparing me—not just for the general dangers of Bratva life, but for specific threats she must have sensed gathering around her.

I shake my head, enough of Moscow's shadows or my mother's ghost darkening my first night of freedom. Tonight, I will be just Anastasia—not Markov, not Bratva, not anyone's possession.

The concierge mentioned a jazz club nearby, the kind of place real Parisians frequent. No oligarchs, no gangsters, no one who might recognize the daughter of Russia's most feared man.

On impulse, I go to the closet, bypassing the designer gowns Father's staff packed. Instead, I pull out items I smuggled in my personal bag—a simple black dress, more daring than anything I'd wear in Moscow, and heeled boots that will let me dance until dawn if I choose.

Twenty minutes later, I study my reflection. Hair loose instead of elegantly styled. Makeup bolder around the eyes, lips stained deep red. Gold Markov signet ring removed and locked in the room safe.

For once, I look like myself—whoever that might be.

As I leave the hotel, stepping into the warm Parisian night, the city envelops me in a symphony of sensations—the yeasty scent of fresh baguettes from a late-night bakery, the distant strains of an accordion, the musical cadence of French conversations floating around me, so different from the clipped, guarded tones of Bratva gatherings.

Then, a different sensation crawls up my spine—the unmistakable prickle of being watched. My mother's voice whispers in my memory: "Trust that feeling, Nastya. Your body knows danger before your mind can name it."

Instinctively, I scan the street, my gaze catching on a figure leaning against a building across the boulevard. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a stillness that speaks of lethal capability rather than casual observation. Our eyes meet briefly—his silver-gray, unnervingly intense—before he melts into the shadows.

My heart pounds against my ribs, not entirely from fear. There's something magnetic about him, something that ignites a response I've never felt before. My mother's warning echoes again: "Dangerous men are the most alluring, Nastya. Remember, attraction can be the deadliest trap of all."

In Moscow, I would retreat immediately, call security, alert my father.

In Paris, I feel a different response—a curl of heat, a flicker of something dangerous and thrilling that spreads through my veins faster than champagne. My skin tingles where his gaze touched me, and despite the warm night, goosebumps rise along my arms.

I know with bone-deep certainty that comes from a lifetime of reading people and assessing their deepest motives that this man is different from my father's associates. My instincts tell me he is more dangerous. Perhaps because the threat he might pose isn't just to my life, but to my carefully constructed defenses.

With a bold smile that would scandalize my father, I step deeper into the Paris night, for once walking toward danger instead of away from it. Something tells me the silver-eyed stranger will follow. Something tells me I want him to.

I've spent my life avoiding predators. Perhaps it's time to dance with one.