Betrothed and Bred by the Bratva (Bred By The BRATVA #10)

Chapter 1

Pyotr

Two Years Ago...

The girl in the blue dress is going to ruin me.

I know this the moment I see her across Dimitri's ballroom, standing beside her pathetic excuse for a father like she's afraid to breathe without permission.

Vera Reznikova. Eighteen years old as of last week.

I made it my business to know. Daughter of a gambling addict who owes me four hundred thousand dollars and climbing.

I should look away. I'm forty-three. She's barely legal. Too young. Too innocent. Too fucking perfect.

My cock doesn't care about the age gap. It's already hard, pressing against my zipper as I watch her fidget with the bracelet on her wrist. She doesn't want to be here.

That much is obvious from the way she stays glued to Mikhail's side, her dark eyes scanning the room like she's searching for escape routes.

Smart girl. She should run.

But she won't.

"That's Reznikov's daughter." Dimitri appears at my elbow, vodka in hand, reading my stare with the accuracy of a man who's known me twenty years. "Just turned eighteen."

"I know."

"Too young for you."

As if I don’t know.

I take a slow sip of my own drink, never breaking eye contact with the girl. "Don't care."

Dimitri sighs. It's the sound of a man who knows he's already lost the argument. "You're going to claim her, aren't you?"

The truth is, I decided the moment I saw her.

The moment my body recognized what my mind is only now catching up to: this girl was made for me.

Made to be owned. Made to be bred. Made to carry my children and warm my bed and look at me with those wide, frightened eyes while I ruin her for anyone else.

She shifts her weight, uncomfortable in heels that are too high.

The curve of her hips—wide enough for childbearing, my caveman brain supplies helpfully.

The soft swell of her breasts under that modest blue dress.

The way her dark hair falls over one shoulder, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat.

I want to bite her there. Mark her. Make her scream my name while I pump her full of my cum and breed her like the pretty little bitch she doesn't know she is yet.

"Pyotr." Dimitri's voice holds warning now. "She's a child."

"She's legal." I drain my vodka, setting the glass down with controlled precision. "And she won't be a child for long."

Because I'm going to take everything. Her innocence. Her virginity. She's absolutely a virgin, I can tell from the way she carries herself, all awkward grace and uncertain movements. Her future. I'm going to take it all and give her exactly what she needs in return.

Structure. Discipline. My cock buried deep in her pussy every night. My baby growing in her belly.

The thought makes me harder. I adjust myself discreetly, never taking my eyes off her.

That's when it happens.

Mikhail says something to her in a sharp, commanding voice. "Sit down and be quiet, Vera."

And she melts.

The tension drains from her shoulders. The frantic energy stills. She immediately sinks into the chair behind her, hands folding in her lap, eyes downcast. Docile. Obedient. Relieved.

Natural submissive.

She doesn't even know what she is yet. Doesn't know that her body craves orders the way other people crave air. Doesn't know that the reason she's uncomfortable isn't because she's at a Bratva party—it's because no one's telling her what to do, and her mind is screaming with too many choices.

But I know.

I see exactly what she is. What she needs.

"You're staring," Dimitri observes dryly.

"I'm deciding."

"Deciding what?"

I finally tear my gaze away from her, meeting my oldest friend's eyes. "How quickly I can make her mine."

***

Three days later, I sit across from Mikhail Reznikov in his study, watching sweat bead on his forehead as he realizes exactly how deep in shit he is.

"Five hundred thousand," I say calmly, spreading the paperwork across his desk. "With interest. Due in thirty days."

He's pale. Good. "I can pay."

"No, you can't." I lean back in the chair, completely relaxed. This is my favorite part—watching desperate men realize they're fucked. "Your assets are mortgaged. Your accounts are empty. You've borrowed from everyone who'll lend to you, and they're all calling in their debts."

"I just need time—"

"You don't have time." I let the silence stretch, watching him squirm. Then I lean forward. "But I have an offer."

Hope flares in his bloodshot eyes. Pathetic. "Anything."

"Your daughter."

He blinks. "What?"

"Vera." I say her name slowly, savoring it. "Give her to me, and your debt is forgiven. All of it. Plus two hundred thousand cash and Bratva protection for your remaining family."

Understanding dawns slowly. He's drunk—he's always drunk—but he's not stupid enough to miss what I'm proposing. "You want to... you want Vera?"

"As my wife."

"She's eighteen."

"Legal." I slide another document across the desk. A betrothal contract, already prepared. "She marries me when she graduates university or when you die, whichever comes first. Until then, she's untouchable. Under my protection. Mine."

He stares at the contract like it's a snake. "I can't do that; she's my daughter."

"She's your only asset worth anything." I keep my voice flat, matter-of-fact.

"And you have two choices. Sign this, and she becomes my wife.

She will be protected, provided for, safe.

Or don't sign, and my collectors come for what you owe.

They'll take her anyway, Mikhail. They'll pass her around, use her up, and dump what's left in the street. "

It's not entirely a lie.

Other men have already made comments about Reznikov's "pretty daughter." If I don't claim her, someone else will. Someone who won't cherish her the way I will. Someone who won't give her everything she needs.

Someone who won't love her with the single-minded obsession that's been eating me alive for the past three days.

"But if you sign," I continue, "she becomes a Bratva wife. My wife. Untouchable. Safe. And you die knowing you did one decent thing in your miserable life."

Mikhail's hand shakes as he reaches for the pen.

Smart man.

"She won't agree," he says weakly.

"She will." I lean back again, confident. "You'll make sure of it."

***

The next evening, Mikhail delivers the signed contract to my office.

His hands shake as he slides it across my desk. I pick it up, examining both signatures. His is steady—he was sober enough for this, at least. Hers is shakier, the letters slightly uneven.

"She signed it?" I ask, though I can see she did.

"Yes." He won't meet my eyes. Guilt, probably. Good.

"She understood what she was signing?"

A pause. Too long. "I told her it was for her university fund."

I look up sharply. "You lied to her."

"She wouldn't have signed otherwise—"

"I don't care." And I don't. The contract is legal either way. Bratva marriages don't require the bride's enthusiastic consent—just her signature. And I have that now, in black ink on expensive paper. "It's done."

Mikhail nods, miserable. He's already spent the two hundred thousand in his mind, I can tell. Probably planning which casino to hit first.

"She's mine now," I say, more to myself than to him. I trace her signature with one finger. Vera Reznikova. Soon to be Vera Maksimova. "Two years, Mikhail. Two years and then I collect."

"She's a good girl," he says suddenly, desperately. "Smart. Kind. She deserves—"

"She deserves better than you." I stand, tucking the contract into my safe. "And she'll get it. I'll give her everything she needs. Structure. Protection. Purpose."

A collar. My cock. My babies growing in her belly.

But I don't say that part out loud.

Mikhail leaves without another word. I pour myself a drink and sit back down, thinking about the girl who just signed her life over to me without even knowing it.

She'll find out eventually. When I come to collect her. When I make her mine in every possible way.

***

The preparations begin immediately.

I buy an estate outside the city—isolated, secure, perfect for keeping a wife who might try to run at first. I have it furnished to my exact specifications.

Soft colors in the master bedroom. A nursery down the hall—pale yellow walls, a crib already assembled, "Baby Maksimov" painted above it in delicate script.

I have Vera followed. I know her schedule down to the minute. Coffee at 7 AM from the shop on campus. Classes until 3 PM. Library until 6. Home by 7 unless she's meeting friends, which is rare. She's solitary. Perfect.

I know she sleeps on her left side. That she's afraid of thunderstorms and sleeps with a nightlight. That she keeps a journal under her mattress where she writes about feeling lost, overwhelmed, uncertain about her future.

She won't be uncertain for long. I'll give her certainty. Purpose.

She'll be my wife. The mother of my children. Mine.

I sabotage three different boys who try to date her.

The first develops sudden financial problems and transfers schools.

The second has a regrettable accident involving his car and a guardrail—he lives, but he loses interest in dating.

The third simply disappears after I have a conversation with him about respecting what belongs to other men.

Vera never knows. She thinks she's just unlucky in love.

She has no idea she's been claimed.

Every night, I jerk off thinking about her. About spreading her legs and sinking into virgin pussy that belongs to me. About watching her belly swell with my baby. About her on her knees, looking up at me with those big dark eyes while I fuck her mouth.

About owning her. Completely.

I count down the days. Weeks. Months.

Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

Just two more years until she graduates. Two more years of waiting, planning, preparing for the moment I can finally take what's mine.

Except I don't have to wait that long.

The call comes on a Tuesday evening. Mikhail Reznikov is dead. Heart attack. Massive. He was dead before the ambulance arrived.

I hang up the phone and sit in silence.

Then I smile.

The contract specified: marriage upon university completion or death of Mikhail Reznikov, whichever comes first.

Early the next day, I shower, shave, dress in funeral black. I look at myself in the mirror, at the tattoos covering my hands, crawling up my neck, the wolf that prowls across my throat. The face of a killer. A monster.

Her monster now.

I check my watch.

I've already arranged everything—the service, the burial, the collection. Sofia, Mikhail's sister, knows I'm coming. She'll have Vera ready.

Ready to learn she's been mine for two years.

Ready to learn she's getting married in three days.

Ready to learn exactly what it means to belong to Pyotr Maksimov.

I grab my keys and head for the door. Two years of obsession, planning, waiting. Two years of watching her, wanting her, preparing to claim her.

It's finally time.

And when I sink into her virgin pussy, when I breed her and make her scream my name, when I watch her belly swell with proof of my ownership—it will all be worth it.

Every second of waiting.

Every moment of desperate, aching need.

Worth it.

I climb into my car and start driving toward the funeral home. Toward her.

You’re mine, Vera.

And there's not a fucking thing you can do about it.