Possessive Bratva Stepbrothers (Stepbrothers' Forbidden Fantasies #5)

1. Wren

WREN

I didn't ask to be here.

My mother told me two months ago—not asked, told—that she was marrying a Russian guy named Viktor Volkov. I didn't get a vote. Didn't get a conversation. Just: "Pack something nice, sweetie. We're going to New York for the wedding."

No explanation about who he was, what he did, or why this whole thing felt like watching someone sign a contract instead of fall in love.

And now I'm standing outside a church in Brooklyn, fidgeting with the strap of my purse, watching men in dark suits who look like they could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

Nobody's smiling. Nobody's excited. It's a wedding, supposedly, but the vibe screams funeral.

The kind where everyone's relieved the body's finally in the ground.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and scan the crowd for Mom. She's inside already, probably fussing with her dress or checking her makeup for the fifteenth time, doing that thing where she smiles too bright and pretends everything's fine. I should go in. I will. In a minute.

Just... not yet.

The humidity clings to my skin, making my dress stick to my thighs.

It's a little too warm for late afternoon, and the air feels heavy, thick enough to choke on.

Like the whole city's holding its breath.

My pulse thumps in my ears, too fast, too loud, and I press my palm against my stomach because that's definitely helping with the nausea.

It's not.

"You must be our new stepsister."

I spin around, and my breath catches.

Three men stand in front of me. Not men—mountains.

The shortest of them has to be six-four, and that's being generous.

They're all in tailored black suits, and they're all staring at me like I'm a problem they haven't decided how to solve yet.

Or maybe like I'm something breakable that wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

The one who spoke is in the middle. Dark blonde hair that brushes the tips of his ears, brown eyes that don't blink, and a face that could've been carved from stone.

He's the tallest, and his suit jacket does nothing to hide the tattoos creeping up his neck.

His gaze holds mine, steady and unreadable, and I have the distinct impression he's cataloging every nervous twitch I make.

Every single one.

My throat goes dry. I swallow, and it doesn't help.

I chew my bottom lip. "Uh. Yeah. Hi."

Brilliant. Truly inspired opening line. I should write greeting cards.

"Lev," he says, and his voice is low, clipped. Efficient. Like he's never wasted a word in his life and doesn't plan to start now. "This is Kostya. Maxim."

The one on the left—Kostya, apparently—looks like he could bench-press a truck.

Two trucks. Black hair buzzed close to his scalp, stubble darkening his jaw, and full-sleeve tattoos disappearing under his shirt cuffs.

He's bigger than Lev, broader, all hard angles and blunt force, and he's staring at me like I just insulted his mother.

Or like I'm about to, and he's waiting for the excuse.

"Kotyonok," he mutters, and I have no idea what that means, but it doesn't sound friendly.

The air between us feels sharp. Wrong. Like I'm standing too close to something dangerous and my body knows it even if my brain hasn't caught up yet.

The third one—Maxim—grins. It's the first smile I've seen all day, and it's disarming.

Black hair slicked back, a trimmed beard, and tattoos winding up his neck just like the others.

He's the most polished of the three, and when his eyes meet mine, there's a spark of mischief in them that makes my stomach flip.

Not flip. Drop. Like I missed a step going downstairs.

"I had no idea you looked like this," he says, leaning slightly forward. His voice is warm, easy, the kind that makes you want to lean in too. "We could've met sooner."

Heat floods my face. My whole face. I feel it burn across my cheeks, down my neck, pooling at the base of my throat. "I—what?"

Lev's gaze sharpens on Maxim, but he doesn't say anything. Just looks at him, one long, flat look, and Maxim's grin shifts. Still there, but smaller. Less cocky.

I don't know what to do with my hands. I press them against the silk of my dress, and that's worse, because now I'm hyperaware of the way the fabric clings, the way I'm probably wrinkling it, the way I'm standing here like an idiot while three enormous men stare at me.

I don't know a lot about the brothers. Just their names and ages.

Lev is thirty-three, Maxim is thirty-two, and Kostya is thirty-one.

Too old for my twenty-one years, and yet here I am, flushed and flustered because one of them smiled at me and another one won't stop staring and the third one looks like he wants to throw me into traffic.

My heart's doing something stupid in my chest. Kicking against my ribs like it's trying to get out.

These are my new stepbrothers, connected to me only through this marriage. No blood relation. The brothers aren't even related to each other. Both Maxim and Kostya were adopted by Viktor. That's all Mom told me, and she didn't offer details.

Didn't offer much of anything, really, except the dress code and the date.

I tuck my hair behind my ear again. My fingers are shaking. Just a little. Just enough that I notice. "It's, um. Nice to meet you."

Kostya snorts. "Sure it is."

"Ignore him," Maxim says, still grinning. His eyes haven't left mine, and I don't know if that's better or worse. "He was raised by wolves."

"We were all raised by wolves," Lev says flatly. "Go inside."

It takes me a second to realize he's talking to me. I nod, because what else am I supposed to do—argue? Stand here until I combust from sheer awkward?—and slip past them toward the church doors.

I feel their eyes on me the entire way. All three of them. A prickle between my shoulder blades, a heat that has nothing to do with the humidity. My legs feel unsteady, like I just got off a boat, and I have to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

My pulse is still racing when I reach the door.

I pull it open and step into the cool, incense-heavy air, and I don't look back.

I don't need to.

I can still feel them watching.

The ceremony is short. Efficient. My mother stands at the altar in a cream dress that makes her look younger than forty-four, and Viktor Volkov—the pakhan, as everyone keeps calling him—takes her hand like he's accepting a business deal.

I sit in the third row, alone, and try not to think about how wrong this feels.

The church is old, all dark wood and stone that probably saw its best days a century ago.

The air smells like incense and furniture polish, heavy enough that I can taste it at the back of my throat.

Light filters through stained glass windows—reds and blues that throw colored shadows across the pews—but it doesn't make anything feel warmer.

Just... older. Like this building has seen too many things and kept its mouth shut about all of them.

The church is packed, but nobody's murmuring. Nobody's whispering in excitement. It's almost too quiet, like everyone's holding their breath, waiting for something to go sideways. I hear the rustle of fabric when someone shifts in their seat. The faint creak of wood settling. That's it.

My hands are damp in my lap. I press them against the silk of my dress again.

I glance over my shoulder.

Lev, Kostya, and Maxim are in the back row, and all three of them are already looking at me.

My stomach does a weird flip—half nerves, half something I absolutely shouldn't be feeling in a church while my mother gets married to a man I met yesterday. Heat crawls up my neck. I turn back around fast, my cheeks burning like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't.

Mom smiles when Viktor slips the ring onto her finger—a real smile, soft at the edges—and I tell myself that's enough. She looks happy. That's what matters. Her hand trembles just slightly when he takes it, and I pretend I don't see that part.

I just want this to be over with.

The reception is in a hotel ballroom a few blocks away, and it's somehow even quieter than the ceremony. The music is soft, almost background noise—strings and something I think might be delicate and haunting—and the people move through the space like they're navigating a minefield.

Every footstep sounds too loud. Every clink of glassware feels deliberate, measured.

I sit at a table near the edge of the room, alone again, watching my mother dance with Viktor.

They actually look happy, which is more than I expected.

Mom's laughing at something he said, her head tilted back, and Viktor's smiling—really smiling, not the tight-lipped grimace he wore at the altar.

His hand rests at the small of her back, protective, and for just a second I can almost believe this might be okay.

The food's incredible, at least. Russian dishes I don't recognize, rich and flavorful and so layered with spices my mouth tingles.

I pick at a plate of something that might be dumplings, the pastry soft under my fork, and try to ignore the way everyone's watching everyone else.

The room smells like butter and meat and something faintly sweet, warm bread maybe, and underneath it all the sharp bite of vodka.

The humidity from earlier hasn't let up. Even inside, the air feels thick, oppressive, clinging to my skin. I shift in my seat and tug at the neckline of my dress, wishing I could peel off the silk and just breathe.

"You look lonely."

I jump, nearly knocking over my water glass. Maxim slides into the seat beside me—not across, beside, close enough that his thigh almost brushes mine—and I can smell his cologne. Something clean and expensive, cedar maybe, with an edge of citrus that makes my pulse kick up a notch.

Heat pools low in my stomach before I can stop it.