Chapter 7 Vera
Vera
Iwake to the sensation of being filled.
It takes a moment for consciousness to return fully—awareness coming in slow, drowsy waves. Warm. Safe. Stretched around something thick and hard and...
Oh.
He's inside me.
Not pushing in. Already there. Already buried deep, his body curved around mine from behind, one arm locked around my waist.
I make a soft, confused sound and feel him throb in response.
"Shh," he murmurs against my neck, lips brushing my skin. "Just me, malyshka. Just your husband."
His hips roll forward, slow and lazy, and I gasp at the friction. I'm wet—so wet. How long has he been...?
"I’ve been inside you about fifteen minutes," he says, reading my thoughts. His hand splays possessively across my stomach. "You sleep so pretty when you're full of my cock."
Fifteen minutes. He's been using me for fifteen minutes while I slept.
"You were making these little sounds," he continues, another slow thrust. "These sweet, needy sounds in your sleep. Your pussy was getting wet, clenching around nothing. Your body wanted me even while you were dreaming. So I gave it what it needed."
Heat floods my face. My body responded to him before I was even conscious. Wanted him. Opened for him in sleep.
"That's what it means to be my wife," he says, voice dark with satisfaction. "I get to use you whenever I want. However I want. Even when you're sleeping. Especially then, when you can't pretend you don't need this as much as I do."
He's moving now with more purpose, his cock dragging against that spot inside me that makes my toes curl. I'm still half-asleep, mind fuzzy, body pliant and responsive in ways I can't control.
"Stay just like this," he orders when I try to shift. "Let me use you. That's what you're for, isn't it? To warm my cock whenever I need you to?"
I whimper into the pillow as he picks up speed. The position has me completely open to him, unable to do anything but take it. Take him. His free hand slides between my legs, finding my clit.
"Come for me," he commands. "Show me your body knows who owns it."
I do. Fall apart around him while he's still moving, my internal muscles clenching and fluttering around his cock. He groans against my neck, thrusting harder, chasing his own release.
"Mine," he growls as he comes. "Even in your sleep. Even when you don't know, I'm taking you. Always mine."
He stays inside me after, softening slowly, his hand possessive on my stomach as always.
"Good morning, wife," he finally says. "Ready to start the day?"
This is my life now. Waking to him already inside me, using me, claiming me. Free use. Complete access. My body his to take whenever he wants it.
And I think I love it.
***
Later, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I barely recognize her.
The woman staring back at me is covered in marks. Evidence of ownership written on her skin in bruises and bites.
Hickeys bloom across my throat—dark purple against pale skin.
More across my breasts, my ribs, trailing down to my inner thighs.
Fingerprint bruises on my hips, five perfect circles on each side where he grips me every time he takes me.
Bite marks on both shoulders. A particularly dark hickey right above my collarbone that he sucked into existence this morning while he was still moving inside me.
I touch the hickey on my collarbone gingerly. It's tender. They all are.
"Admiring my work?"
I jump at his voice. He appears in the bathroom doorway, completely naked, still half-hard. Water droplets cling to his tattooed chest—he showered while I was staring at myself.
His eyes trace over every mark in the mirror with dark satisfaction.
"Everyone will know," I say quietly, meeting his gaze in the reflection. "When we go out. Everyone will see these and know..."
"Know that you're owned," he finishes, moving behind me. His hands settle on my hips, fingers sliding perfectly into the bruises he left last night. "That's the point, malyshka. I want everyone to see my claim on you."
He presses against my back, and I can feel him hardening again. Always ready. Always wanting.
"You're mine, Vera. These marks prove it." His hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb deliberately brushing over a particularly dark hickey. "And every time they start to fade, I'll put new ones there. Keep you marked. Keep everyone knowing you're taken."
"Do they hurt?" he asks, squeezing my breast gently.
"A little."
"Good." His eyes gleam in the mirror. "Good pain. The kind that reminds you who you belong to every time you move. Every time you see yourself. Every time someone looks at you."
His other hand splays across my stomach, in a possessive gesture that's become constant. "By the time these fade, you'll be showing. Then everyone will know you're mine for a different reason."
He always finishes inside me. Always keeps me pinned beneath him for several minutes after, his hand splayed possessively over my stomach.
"Keep me in there," he orders every single time. "Don't get up yet. Let it stay inside where it belongs."
Breakfast follows. He feeds me himself half the time, watching me eat with that intense focus that makes me squirm. His hand never leaves my stomach during meals—constantly touching, checking, as if he'll be able to feel the moment his seed takes root.
"When's your next period due?" he asked yesterday morning.
"About a week and a half."
His eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. "You won't have it. You're already pregnant. I made sure of it."
The certainty in his voice both terrifies and thrills me.
Afternoons vary, but they always end the same way—with him taking me on whatever surface is closest. The kitchen counter. His desk in the study. Against the library wall. Once, memorably, in the pool.
"Can't wait," he'll growl, already pulling my clothes off. "Need you now."
Dinners are torture. We sit across from each other at the long table, tension crackling between us. He feeds me bites from his plate. His hand strokes my thigh under the table. By the time we finish eating, I'm already wet and aching.
Then he takes me to bed and breeds me thoroughly. Sometimes gentle, often not. Always possessive. Always ending with me full of his cum, his hand on my stomach, his voice dark with promise.
"Going to keep you pregnant. Keep you full. Keep you mine."
***
"I want to go for a walk," I announce at breakfast. "Alone. Just around the grounds."
He doesn't even look up from his coffee. "No."
"I just need an hour—"
"No."
Frustration flares. "I'm not your prisoner!"
His eyes snap to mine. Ice-blue and hard. Then he's moving, out of his chair and on me in seconds. He backs me against the wall, one hand around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. Claiming.
"Yes," he says softly, voice deadly. "You are. My wife. My property. Mine. And you don't get to go anywhere without me. Ever."
"That's insane!"
"That's reality." His grip tightens slightly. "You want to know what happens if you try to leave? If you try to run? I'll chase you down. I'll drag you back here. And then I'll fuck you until you can't walk. Until you can't even think about leaving again."
My breath catches. I'm furious. But, I'm also impossibly turned on. My body is a traitor, responding to his dominance even as my mind rebels against it.
"You want space?" he continues, reading my arousal clearly. "Too bad. You're mine. You don't get space. You get me. Always."
He releases my throat, but only to grab my hips and spin me around. My palms hit the wall as he yanks down my sleep shorts.
"Since you want to test me," he growls, "let me remind you exactly who's in charge."
He takes me against the wall. Hard. Claiming. His hand fists in my hair, holding my face against the plaster while he drives into me from behind.
"This pussy is mine," he grunts with each thrust. "This body is mine. You are MINE. Say it."
"Yours," I gasp.
"Again."
"I'm yours!"
"Good girl." He reaches around to rub my clit and I come screaming, my body clenching around him. He follows immediately, groaning as he fills me once again.
After, he holds me against the wall, both of us panting. His hand slides to my stomach, possessive as always.
"You don't get space, malyshka," he says against my ear. "You get me. Always me. Accept it."
***
On day seven, he takes me to Wolf's Den for a monthly Bratva meeting.
"Do I have to go?" I ask nervously as he helps me dress. He picked the outfit—a fitted black dress that shows my curves but covers most of the marks. Most, but not all. The hickey above my collarbone is deliberately visible.
"Yes." He zips up the back, his fingers lingering. "You're my wife. They need to see you. See my claim on you."
"What if—"
"What if what?" He turns me to face him, cupping my jaw. "What if someone looks at you? What if someone says something? What if someone makes you uncomfortable?"
I nod hesitantly.
"Then I'll handle it." His thumb strokes my cheek. "That's what husbands do, malyshka. We protect what's ours. And you're mine to protect now."
Wolf's Den is exactly what I expected—dark wood, expensive leather, the smell of cigars and danger. Men in suits worth more than cars, women who look like they walked off magazine covers. Everyone beautiful and deadly.
Pyotr keeps me glued to his side the moment we enter. His hand locks around my waist, possessive and claiming. Several people look our way, curiosity clear on their faces.
"Pyotr," a man greets us—older, distinguished, commanding presence. "This must be your bride."
"Dimitri," Pyotr acknowledges. "Yes. My wife, Vera."
Dimitri's eyes are kind as he looks at me. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Maksimova. My own wife, Anya, has been asking about you."
Anya appears beside him—the woman who took me dress shopping. She smiles warmly. "How are you adjusting?"
"I'm..." I glance at Pyotr, who's watching me intently. "I'm adjusting."
"Good." She squeezes my hand. "It gets easier. Then it gets... different."
We move through the room. Pyotr introduces me to various people—names and faces that blur together. I'm hyperaware of the attention, of eyes tracking us, assessing me. Judging whether I'm worthy of being a Bratva wife.
More than once, I catch men's gazes lingering. Not inappropriately, just looking. But each time it happens, I feel Pyotr tense beside me. His grip on my waist tightens. Possessive. Warning.
We're standing near the bar, Pyotr talking business with two other men, when I feel it. The weight of someone's stare. Not a casual glance—a prolonged, assessing look that makes my skin crawl.
I turn slightly and see him. Younger than most men here—maybe early thirties. Heavily tattooed, wearing an expensive but somehow cheaper-looking suit than the others. And he's staring at me with an expression that makes me want to move closer to Pyotr.
I shift, pressing against my husband's side. His arm immediately tightens around me.
"What's wrong?" he asks, cutting off mid-sentence to look at me.
"Nothing, I just—"
But he's already seen it. Seen where I was looking. Seen the man staring.
Everything changes.
The temperature in the room seems to drop. Pyotr's entire body goes rigid, muscles coiling with predatory intent. The men he was talking to take an instinctive step back.
"Stay here," he orders me, voice flat and cold.
"Pyotr."
But he's already moving.
I watch as he crosses the room in long, purposeful strides. The crowd parts instinctively, sensing violence coming. The man—I hear someone whisper "Yuri"—doesn't see him approaching until it's too late.
Pyotr doesn't say a word.
His fist connects with Yuri's face with a sickening crack.
The entire room goes silent. All conversation stops. Everyone turns to watch.
Yuri staggers back, blood already streaming from his nose. He raises his hands—whether to defend himself or surrender, I can't tell.
It doesn't matter.
Pyotr hits him again. And again. Three brutal, efficient punches. I can hear bone breaking. Can see blood spray across expensive wood floors.
Yuri crumples, hands covering his ruined face.
Pyotr stands over him, chest heaving, knuckles bloody. When he speaks, his voice carries through the silent room.
"DON'T. LOOK. AT. MY. WIFE."
The words echo. A claim. A warning. A promise.
No one moves. No one speaks. Even Dimitri just watches, expression neutral, making no move to interfere.
This is Bratva justice. This is what happens when someone disrespects another man's wife.
Pyotr turns and walks back to me like nothing happened. Like he didn't just beat a man bloody in front of dozens of witnesses. His knuckles are split, blood dripping onto the floor.
He stops in front of me, ice-blue eyes burning with something feral. "We're leaving."
I can only nod.
His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit. The crowd parts for us. I can feel everyone's eyes, but no one is looking at me the way Yuri was. No one dares.
Behind us, I hear someone helping Yuri up, hear his groans of pain.
Pyotr doesn't look back.
In the car, silence stretches. He's gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping. Blood from his split knuckles smears on the leather.
He's still wound tight. Still vibrating with violence barely contained.
I don't know what to say. Don't know how to process what I just saw.
He beat a man for looking at me. Not touching. Not threatening. Just looking.
I'm horrified by the violence.
I'm also incredibly aroused.
Something dark and primitive in me responded to what happened. To the possessiveness. To the immediate, brutal defense. He did that for me. Because someone looked at me wrong. Because I'm his and he won't allow anyone else to even think about having me.
Halfway home, he suddenly swerves onto a dark side road and stops the car.
"Backseat." His voice is rough, barely controlled. "Now."
I scramble into the back. He follows, hands already pulling at my clothes, yanking my dress up.
"You're mine," he growls, positioning himself between my thighs. "No one else. MINE."
He takes me in the backseat of the car like an animal. Rough. Desperate. Claiming. His bloody knuckles leave marks on my skin and I don't care. I meet him thrust for thrust, just as desperate, just as feral.
"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours!" I cry out. "Yours. Only yours."
We come together, violent and overwhelming. After, we're both shaking, both gasping for air.
He pulls me into his lap, still inside me, his arms locked around me like he'll never let go.
"Anyone who looks at you dies," he says against my hair. "Anyone who touches you dies. You're mine, Vera. Mine until the day I die."
"I know," I whisper.
And I do. I know exactly what I am now.
His. Completely. Irrevocably.
Mrs. Maksimova. Bratva wife. Claimed woman.
And despite how it happened—despite the force, the lack of choice, the overwhelming possession—I don't want to be anywhere else.