Chapter 5 Pyotr
Pyotr
The small Russian Orthodox chapel is empty except for the priest making preparations and Dimitri, who insisted on coming with me. Probably thought I'd do something stupid if left alone. He might be right.
The pews are already decorated with white flowers, candles, simple but elegant. Exactly what I specified. Everything is ready. Everything is perfect.
Except she's not here yet.
I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Still an hour and a half to go.
"You're pacing," Dimitri observes from where he leans against the wall near the altar. "I've never seen you nervous."
"I'm not nervous." I turn, glare at him. "I'm ready. Where is she?"
"Anya's bringing her. You'll see her when she walks down the aisle." He crosses his arms, smirking. "Tradition, remember?"
"Fuck tradition. I want to see her now."
"Pyotr." He says my name like he's talking to a child. "You can wait another ninety minutes."
I can't, actually. The past three days have been torture. Every moment since I first touched her has been torture. Last night, sleeping beside her with her body pressed against mine, my hand on her stomach while I imagined it swollen with my child—I barely slept at all.
And now she's somewhere getting ready, putting on that dress I'm not allowed to see, becoming my bride, and I'm stuck here waiting.
"What if she runs?" The words escape before I can stop them.
Dimitri raises an eyebrow. "Will she?"
I think about yesterday. About fingering her in the library, feeling how tight and wet she was, how she came apart in my arms. About how she looked at the wedding dress with something that might have been acceptance. About how she slept last night without fighting me.
"No," I say with certainty. "She won't run. She's mine. She knows it."
"Then stop pacing."
I don't.
The next hour drags. Guests start arriving. It's a small wedding by Bratva standards. I didn't want a spectacle. Just want her legally bound to me so I can finally take what's mine.
Viktor nods to me as he enters, takes a seat in the back. Yuri. Alexei. Men I trust, men who know what this day means. That I'm claiming something precious. That anyone who looks at her wrong will answer to me.
Finally Dimitri touches my shoulder. "They're here."
My heart, which has been steady through firefights and executions and negotiations with men far more dangerous than me, suddenly pounds. I position myself at the altar, facing the doors at the back of the chapel.
The doors open.
Anya enters first, elegant in a blue dress. She catches my eye, smiles, then moves to the side.
And then Vera appears.
Fuck.
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. I've imagined this moment for two years. Dreamed about it. Planned for it. But nothing prepared me for the reality of her.
The dress fits perfectly—white satin that hugs every curve, delicate lace sleeves, a neckline that's modest but hints at what's beneath.
Her dark hair is swept up, exposing her neck, showing off the elegant line of her throat that I've marked with my mouth.
And when she starts walking toward me I see it.
The low back.
The dress dips to just above her lower spine, exposing smooth, unmarked skin. Skin I haven't touched yet. Skin that will be mine in a matter of hours.
My hands clench at my sides. Every muscle in my body tightens with the need to go to her, grab her, pull her against me and never let go.
But I force myself to stay still. Wait. Let her come to me.
Her eyes find mine as she walks down the aisle.
Mine. Finally mine.
When she reaches the altar, I extend my hand. She hesitates for just a second then places her hand in mine.
Her skin is cold. Trembling slightly. I squeeze her fingers, trying to communicate without words: I have you. You're safe. You're mine.
The priest begins speaking in Russian. The traditional Orthodox ceremony—blessings, prayers, rituals I barely hear because all my attention is on her. On the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. On the pulse fluttering in her throat. On how the candlelight makes her skin glow.
We exchange vows. Short. Simple. Binding.
"Do you, Pyotr Mikhailovich Maksimov, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." The words come out rough, possessive.
"Do you, Vera Reznikova, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Silence stretches. I feel everyone's eyes on us, feel the moment balance on a knife's edge.
Then, quietly: "I do."
Relief and triumph surge through me in equal measure.
The priest continues, but I'm not listening anymore. I'm staring at her mouth, at the lips forming words I can barely hear. At the woman who just became legally mine.
"You may kiss the bride."
I don't wait for permission. My hand cups the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair, and I pull her into me. The kiss is claiming. Possessive. A promise of everything to come tonight.
She gasps against my mouth, and I take advantage, deepening the kiss. Tasting her. Marking her. My tongue slides against hers, claiming her mouth the way I'll claim the rest of her in a few hours.
I hear the sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind us. A scandalized whisper. The priest clears his throat pointedly.
I don't care. Don't stop.
I kiss her harder, deeper, one hand fisting in her carefully styled hair while the other splays possessively across her lower back, feeling that bare skin. She makes a small sound of surprise and melts against me.
More gasps. Someone mutters something about propriety.
Still don't care.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are glazed, lips swollen, breathing ragged. A flush has spread down her throat to disappear beneath her dress.
Perfect.
The chapel is silent except for a few shocked murmurs. I glance around, meeting eyes that quickly look away. Dimitri is smirking. Anya has her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. The priest looks deeply uncomfortable.
Good. Let them all see exactly how I intend to treat my wife.
"Mrs. Maksimova," I murmur against her ear, loud enough that the front rows can hear.
***
The reception is brief—by my design. I don't want to waste time with formalities when I have her to claim properly.
We stand in the church's small hall while guests offer congratulations. I keep one arm locked around Vera's waist, pulling her against my side. Letting everyone see the possessive hold I have on her.
Dimitri approaches with Anya. "Congratulations."
"Thank you."
Anya hugs Vera, whispers something in her ear that makes her blush. Good. Probably warning her what's coming.
Viktor brings us glasses of champagne. I take mine, then take hers before she can reach for it.
"Hey!"
"You get one glass," I tell her, meeting her eyes. "One. I want you sober tonight. Alert. Feeling everything I'm going to do to you."
She opens her mouth to argue.
"One glass, Vera," I repeat, voice dropping to that commanding tone. "Or none at all. Your choice."
She glares at me, but I see the moment she recognizes the futility of fighting. "One glass."
"Good girl." I hand her the champagne, watching as she takes a careful sip. "Slowly. Make it last."
Dimitri catches my eye from across the room, amusement written all over his face. He understands. This is about control. About making sure she knows exactly who's in charge tonight. About ensuring she's completely present and aware when I claim her.
Not that she needs alcohol to relax, her body already knows what it wants. But I'm not taking chances. Tonight is too important.
After thirty excruciating minutes of pleasantries, I lean down to Vera. "Time to go."
"Already?"
"I'm not waiting any longer." I take her hand, pull her toward the door. "We're leaving."
The car is waiting outside. I help her in, careful of her dress, then slide in beside her. The moment the door closes, cutting us off from the world, I pull her onto my lap.
"Pyotr—"
"Shh." I arrange her so she's straddling me, white dress pooling around us. "I need to touch you. I've been good all ceremony. Let me have this."
My hands find that bare skin on her lower back and I groan. Smooth. Warm. Mine to touch finally.
"This dress," I growl, fingers splaying across her spine. "This fucking dress. You've been driving me insane all ceremony with this skin showing."
"That was the point," she admits quietly.
I pull back to look at her. "You chose this dress to torture me?"
"Anya said it would drive you crazy."
"It did." I slide my hands lower, tracing the edge where fabric meets skin. "Do you know how hard it was to stand there and not touch you? To watch you walk toward me with your back bare and know I couldn't put my hands on you?"
She's breathing faster now, her body responding to my touch even through the layers of her dress.
"But now you're mine," I continue, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair. "Mrs. Maksimova. My wife. And tonight I'm going to peel this dress off you slowly and worship every inch of skin it's been hiding."
The drive to the estate takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of me touching her, tasting her neck, grinding up against her through all the layers of white satin. She's trembling by the time we pull through the gates, and I can feel how wet she is even through our clothes.
Perfect.
Viktor opens the door. I lift Vera out, cradling her against my chest.
"I can walk—"
"No." I start toward the house. "I'm carrying you over the threshold. Tradition."
She doesn't fight. Just wraps her arms around my neck and lets me carry her like the bride she is.
Inside, I don't stop. Don't give her time to think or panic or change her mind. I carry her straight upstairs to our bedroom, kick the door shut behind us, and set her down carefully in the center of the room.
Then I lock the door.
The click of the lock is loud in the sudden silence. Final. She's in here with me now, and there's no escape.
I turn to face her. She's standing exactly where I left her, white dress glowing in the lamplight, dark eyes wide and watching me.
"Scared?" I ask, moving toward her slowly.
"Yes."
"Good." I reach her, cup her face in my hands. "You should be. I've been saving myself for you. Three days of not touching myself, not finding release. Everything I have, everything I've been holding back—it all belongs to you now."
I can feel her trembling. See the fear mixing with anticipation in her eyes.
"But I'm also going to make it good for you," I promise, thumbs stroking her cheeks.
"I'm going to make you come so many times you lose count.
I'm going to worship this body until you're begging me to stop.
And then I'm going to breed you. Fill you with my cum until it takes. Until you're carrying my child."
"Pyotr."
"Turn around."
She obeys immediately, that natural submissive response I've been cultivating. I smile against her hair as I find the first pearl button at the top of her dress.
"There are so many of these buttons," I murmur, undoing the first one. "I'm going to take my time with every single one. By the time I'm done, you're going to be desperate for me."
I undo the second button. The third. Taking my time, drawing it out, feeling her breath quicken with each small reveal of skin.
"Do you know what I thought when I saw you today?" I continue, working methodically down her spine. "I thought: mine. Finally mine. After two years of watching, wanting, and planning."
Fifth button. Sixth. The dress loosens slightly.
"I thought: tonight I ruin her. Take her virginity. Breed her." Another button. "I thought: by morning she'll be full of my cum and there's nothing she can do about it."
Her breathing is ragged now. I'm halfway down her back, exposing more skin with each button.
"You're mine, Vera Maksimova," I say, voice dropping to that commanding tone. "Mine to touch. Mine to claim. Mine to breed. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Good girl."
I finish the last button and step back, letting the dress slip from her shoulders. It pools at her feet in a puddle of white satin and lace, leaving her in white lingerie—lace bra, matching panties, garter belt, stockings.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Perfect. Turn around. Let me see you."
She turns slowly, and the sight of her nearly brings me to my knees. Virgin bride. Mine to corrupt. Mine to claim.
"Come here."
She walks to me on shaking legs. I pull her against me, feeling every soft curve pressed against my still-clothed body.
"Tonight, you become mine completely," I tell her, hands roaming possessively over her barely-covered body. "No more waiting. No more restraint. Just you and me and forever."
I sweep her into my arms again, carry her to the bed, lay her down carefully on the white sheets.
Then I start undressing, never breaking eye contact. Jacket. Tie. Shirt—revealing the full extent of my tattoos. Her eyes widen, tracing the ink across my chest, my arms, my back.
"Like what you see?" I ask, unbuckling my belt.
She nods, unable to look away.
I drop my pants, my cock springing free, hard and ready. I watch her eyes go wide as she sees me fully naked for the first time.
"That's what you do to me," I say, stroking myself once. "That's what you've done to me for two years. And now, I get to sink into you and make you mine."