Cruel Obsession (Laurov Bratva #1)

Chapter One

Mirabel

The name on today’s register makes Elena cross herself.

“Laurov,” she whispers, her eyes cutting to mine. “You sure you want to do this one, Mirabel?”

I glance at the entry. Arkady Laurov and Rosanna Tulikova. Russian names. A big wedding party, according to the notes clipped to the file. The kind that pays well.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, but Elena’s already walking away, her pace quickening down the marble hallway.

A coldness spreads through my chest.

I flip through the file again. High-profile guests. Venue upgrade to the Gold Room. A line-item fee that’s triple my usual rate. And at the bottom, in Elena’s tight handwriting: Security cleared. Proceed with caution.

Proceed with caution?

What the heck does that mean?

Probably that I should be giving this a wide berth. But money is money, after all, and I have bills to pay. So, I close the file, tuck it under my arm, and head to my office.

Twenty minutes until showtime. I need to get changed.

The black silk dress hangs on the back of my office door, still wrapped in the dry-cleaning plastic.

I bought it three months ago—a splurge I couldn’t afford but convinced myself I needed.

Something sleek. Professional. The kind of dress that would make me look like I belonged in rooms full of people who wore wealth like a second skin.

I peel off my cardigan and skirt, letting them pool on the chair, and reach for the zipper. That’s when I hear it.

Voices.

Muffled. Raised.

Coming from the antechamber next door—the room where the bride and groom are supposed to be preparing.

Don’t.

Don’t eavesdrop, Mirabel.

The warning whispers through my mind in my father’s voice. Reasonable. Tired. The same tone he used when I was twelve and got caught reading his medical files. You can’t go through life listening at doors, Mirabel. Some things aren’t meant for you.

But my feet are already moving. I cross the office in three silent steps and press my ear to the wall. The wood is cool against my cheek. I hold my breath, trying to hear better.

“How the fuck can you be pregnant, Rosanna?” The man’s voice is low, rough, vibrating with a fury so tightly controlled it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “You said you were on the pill.”

“Pills aren’t one hundred percent effective, Arkady.” The woman’s voice is quieter. Defensive. Brittle around the edges.

“On the few occasions we had sex, I used a condom to be on the safe side because the first thing I told you was that I never wanted kids. And you said you were okay with that.” A pause. “And now, five minutes before the wedding, you’re telling me you’re pregnant, and you kept it from me?”

Silence stretches between them. I can feel it pressing against the wall, heavy and suffocating.

Then: “How far along are you?”

“About five months.”

“Blyad!” he spits out. “Five months? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You would have noticed if you’d paid the least bit of attention to me.” Rosanna grows petulant. “Why do you think I only ever wear loose clothes these days? Do you even look at me anymore?”

“No,” he mutters. “We don’t connect that way, and you know it.” There’s another long pause, and then: “Is it mine?”

The question is so blunt it even takes my breath away.

“Of course it is!” Rosanna’s voice cracks, sharp and wounded. “I didn’t plan this, Arkady. It just happened, and I’m not killing my child because you’re an asshole!”

Something crashes. A glass, maybe. Or a chair.

My pulse races, throbbing in my temples.

“I never told you to get rid of it,” comes the sharp reply. “But I don’t see how this could fucking happen. Chert voz’mi!”

“I think you know exactly how it could happen, Arkady. But that’s not the point. If we could just discuss—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Arkady says, and his voice has gone cold. Flat. “Aside from the fact that I don’t fucking believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe,” Rosanna shoots back. “It’s your baby. End of story. I don’t want much from you—”

“That is not how it works, woman.” There’s an exasperated huff. “I’ll accept my responsibilities if this is true. But I’m not doing anything without a DNA test.”

“Fine.” From the tension in her tone, I can tell she’s gritting her teeth. “We’ll do whatever you damn well want. Later. But right now, we can’t ruin this ceremony.”

There’s more cursing and heavy footfalls. I can imagine him stalking around the room.

I pull back from the wall, my breath coming too fast. My fingers are trembling.

The last time I couldn’t stop myself from listening—pressed against the door of a hospital waiting room while my mother’s oncologist spoke in low, careful tones—I learned my parents had been lying to me for months.

Stage four. Six months, maybe less. Everything I thought I knew had crumbled, and I’d stood there in the hallway with my hand over my mouth, trying not to scream.

Some doors should stay closed.

But I’ve never been good at walking away.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the words still rattling around in my skull, and turn back to the dress.

That poor woman. What a dick.

It’s none of your business, Mirabel.

Do your job.

Get paid.

Go home.

I step into the silk and shimmy it up over my hips. The fabric slides cool and smooth against my skin, and I reach back to pull the zipper—

It sticks.

I tug harder. The zipper inches up, then stops just below my shoulder blades.

I glance down at myself. The dress clings to my body like a second skin, the neckline straining across my chest. I’ve put on weight since I bought it—not much, but enough that the silk pulls tight over my breasts, digging into the soft flesh.

Shit.

I try tugging the fabric higher, but it doesn’t budge. My breasts press against the silk, threatening to spill over the low-cut neckline with every breath. The ceremony starts in eight minutes.

It’ll be fine.

Just don’t move too much.

Keep your arms down.

Smile.

I smooth my hands over the front of the dress, force my shoulders back, and step into the hallway. The Gold Room is all cream walls and polished parquet, soft lighting that makes everything look like an oil painting. White roses line the aisle, their scent so heavy it’s almost cloying.

But the guests aren’t looking at the roses.

They’re silent. Too silent. Seated in neat rows, dressed in tailored suits and designer gowns, but no one’s smiling. No one’s talking. And there are men standing along the walls. Four of them. Maybe five. Dark suits. Hands clasped in front of them. Earpieces just visible beneath close-cropped hair.

One of them—tall, grim-featured, with ink crawling up his neck in dense black patterns—turns his head as I walk past. His gaze follows me all the way to the front of the room.

The coldness in my chest spreads lower.

Proceed with caution.

I take my place at the altar, gripping my notes, and glance at the groom.

Arkady Laurov.

The air leaves my lungs.

He’s tall—taller than I expected—with broad shoulders and a frame that makes his tailored suit look almost too small to contain him.

His hair is ash brown, styled in a textured quiff that’s just messy enough to look deliberate, and his jaw is sharp, dusted with close-cropped stubble that shadows the hard line of his mouth.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.

Ice blue. Pale as winter sky. And when they land on me, I feel the impact like a hand around my throat.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even nod. Just watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, like he’s measuring every detail. Every breath.

Ink climbs up his throat from beneath the open collar of his shirt—blackwork feathers and wings that curl around his neck and frame his jaw.

There’s a heavy steel watch on his wrist. And something about the way he holds himself—perfectly still, shoulders loose, hands at his sides—makes me think of a wolf. Patient. Waiting.

My mouth goes dry.

I force myself to look away, to focus on the bride.

Rosanna is beautiful in a fragile, porcelain way.

Her dress is all lace and silk and delicate beading, but her face is tight, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

She’s not looking at Arkady. She’s staring straight ahead, her hands gripping her bouquet so hard the stems are bending.

She looks like she wants to run.

The air between them hums with tension—sharp, electric, ready to snap.

I clear my throat.

“Dearly beloved,” I begin, my voice steady despite the way my pulse hammers, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Arkady Laurov and Rosanna Tulikova in marriage—”

A seam pulls.

I feel it—the fabric at my neckline giving, just slightly, as I shift my weight.

Don’t move.

Don’t breathe too hard.

Just get through this and get out of here.

“Marriage is a solemn commitment,” I continue, keeping my attention on my notes. “A partnership built on trust, respect, and—”

Arkady’s gaze drops.

Just for a fragment of a second. A flicker of movement, his eyes tracking downward to my chest before snapping back up to my face.

Heat floods my cheeks.

I see his jaw tighten. A muscle ticks at the corner of his mouth, and he looks away—sharp, deliberate, like he’s annoyed with himself.

But Rosanna noticed.

Her eyes narrow. Her lips thin.

And the air in the room gets colder.

Focus, Mirabel.

Finish the ceremony.

I keep talking, powering through the script, but the dress feels tighter with every word. The silk digs into my ribs, pulling taut across my breasts, and I can feel the seam straining with each breath.

Please.

Not now.

“…bound together in love and in faith—”

The fabric splits.

A soft, quiet rip, barely audible over my own voice.

But I feel it.

Shit!

The seam at the neckline gives, and cool air hits my skin. My left breast pushes free, lush flesh bulging over the neckline.

Time stops.

Fire crawls up my neck and spreads across my face. I freeze mid-sentence, my mouth still open, the words dying in my throat.

Arkady’s gaze flicks down—just once—and something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or amusement. Then his expression goes blank.

Rosanna’s face, on the other hand, is pure venom. She’s staring at my chest, her lips curling into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so sharp.

The stone-faced man by the wall shifts his weight. Another guest coughs.

Move, Mirabel.

Do something.

“I-I… Excuse me,” I stammer, pressing my notes flat against my chest. “One moment.”

I spin on my heel and walk—fast, but not running—out of the room.

I get to my office and look frantically around the room, looking for something—anything—that might help right now, and seeing nothing; no jacket, no jersey, nothing to cover my ripped dress.

I empty my purse onto the seat of my chair, praying I packed something, but no luck.

By the time I turn to my desk, my hands are shaking so hard I can barely open my drawer.

Come on, come on, come on!

I tear through the contents, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

Pens scatter. A stapler clatters to the floor.

My fingers close around soft fabric—a red silk scarf I’d forgotten I had, shoved in the back of the drawer months ago.

I yank it out and drape it around my shoulders, pulling it tight across my chest. The scarf covers the torn neckline. Barely.

Good enough.

I smooth my hair back, adjust the edges of the fabric, and walk back out.

When I step into the Gold Room again, the tension has doubled. Tripled. Arkady and Rosanna are standing inches apart, but they might as well be on opposite sides of a canyon. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw locked tight. She’s turned slightly away from him, her shoulders rigid.

They’ve been fighting again.

The guests are silent. Watching. One of the men along the wall—older, silver-haired, with a face like carved granite—is leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixed on Arkady.

I take my place at the altar and pick up where I left off.

“Rosanna Tulikova,” I say, my voice steady now, professional, “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“I do.”

Her voice is cold. Final.

I turn to Arkady.

“Arkady Laurov,” I say, meeting his gaze, “do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He looks at me. Really looks at me. Not at the scarf. Not at my chest. At my face. His eyes hold mine for a long moment—too long—and something shifts in his expression. Something I can’t read.

The silence stretches. Someone in the audience shifts. A throat clears. Rosanna’s grip on her bouquet tightens, her knuckles bone-white.

Then his jaw clenches.

“No,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “I don’t.”