Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Eva
The ceremony flies by in a flash, and I quickly learn that the reception that follows isn’t at all what I expect.
Tolya walks us up the aisle as man and wife into a lavishly decorated outer room. Here, we’re greeted by his men—Bratva men with hawk eyes and thick accents. The congratulations, or at least I assume that’s what the harsh-sounding Russian exchanges with my new husband are, are brief and hollow.
There are no toasts, no fits of laughter at the bride and groom’s expense, no cigar smoke filling the air in celebration. No music, no banquet table—nothing. Not a single familiar face nor familiar custom is anywhere to be found.
I stand off to the side, shadowed by Tolya’s large frame, suddenly feeling out of place in my white dress. Watching as he converses with his men.
One of them brings two glasses of a clear liquid to us, and I take a healthy drink—instantly choking. It earns me a scrutinizing look from some of the men standing nearby.
Vodka. I should have known.
Nico appears then, and I’m relieved to see him.
“You’re leaving?” he asks Tolya. Though it isn’t really a question—his tone is more accusatory.
“Da. We will not stay here,” Tolya answers, sounding annoyed.
Nico scowls. “Tradition calls for a reception, with the bride and groom present. A celebration of the joining of the families. Not just your men.”
“Your tradition,” Tolya says coolly. “Not mine. She’s Russian now. She will have to learn to respect our ways, and do things by our traditions.”
“She is my sister,” Nico growls, taking a step closer, nostrils flaring.
The tension grows between the two powerful men, thickening the air around them as they stare each other down.
“And now she is my wife,” Tolya replies evenly, his voice gravelly but sharp. “We do not parade our women around after a wedding like trophies. She is coming with me. We are going to my penthouse, to consummate this marriage in seclusion. As is my custom.”
This is all news to me. In the little research I’ve done on Russian wedding traditions, I haven’t run across seclusion. Breaking glass, bride-napping and ransoming, voting on the gender of the first born—all of those things I’d been prepared for. Not a full retreat.
All conversation within the room seems to cease as everyone stops to watch the exchange.
I see the glow in Nico’s eyes—that shift, that dangerous flicker, the flex of his hand. My brother is about to throw the first blow and make one hell of a scene. A movement that would undo everything he’s worked so hard toward.
Everything except my marriage.
Swallowing hard, I act before he can. Stepping forward, standing beside Tolya, I reach out and place a gentle hand on Nico’s arm.
“Nico,” I say softly, drawing his attention. “It’s fine.”
He looks down on me, his chest rising and falling, still seething.
“I’m fine,” I push, my voice soft but firm. “You should go back to the estate,” I glance around, drawing his attention to the Bratva soldiers that surround us, “where it’s safe.”
“It’s not right, Eva,” he protests.
I look around once more—at the stone-faced men that surround us, the room, and my husband. Who hasn’t once looked surprised by the exchange. Then back at my brother.
“You’ve done your part, Nico. I belong here now. Tolya’s right—I’m married into the Russian family, and I need to learn to abide by their traditions now if this is going to work.” I try to sound confident as I speak.
I can tell he doesn’t like it, but the calm and cool side of his brain is beginning to take over. His jaw is still clenched, his eyes glossy with guilt, but he takes a deep sigh and runs a hand through his hair. A habit I realize I’m going to miss.
“Don’t make this harder than it already is… please…” I plead quietly, squeezing his arm.
There’s a long pause, and then he reaches out and pulls me into his arms in a hug. Slipping a phone into my hand as he does so. I use the cover of his body to slip the burner into the bodice of my dress before anyone is able to see it.
“If you need anything, you call me. I don’t care where you are—I’ll come get you,” he says before pulling back and straightening his jacket as he glares at Tolya once more.
My husband’s lip lifts in a crooked grin, his eyes nearly glowing with victory. He’s unapologetically won this round, and I’ve taken his side against my own flesh and blood.
Castling. He moved the king and rook all at once, improving the king’s stance. A classic chess move. A damn good one too.
I nod subtly, my throat too tight to speak.
“If anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible,” he tells my husband, his voice that of molten steel.
Then turning to me, he leans down and places a kiss on my cheek. “Be smart.”
Turning away he glides from the room without another look back.
Tolya offers me his hand and leads me from the reception hall. The car ride is quiet. Too quiet. Riding in the backseat, I watch out the window as the estates disappear and the skyscrapers replace them. The smell of saltwater air drifts in through cracked windows.
Beside me, Tolya sits with one arm casually draped along the back of the seat behind my head. His muscular frame takes up much of the space and no matter how I shift I find that I can’t help but touch him.
He doesn’t say a word to me as we pull away from the estate. Just gives the driver some quick instructions in their native tongue and settles in beside me. His blue eyes are hidden beneath a pair of shades, his face expressionless.
Despite the sunglasses, I can feel his eyes on me.
Those harsh perfect cheekbones give him away, his face is turned in my direction.
His mouth is set in a hard line. I try not to fidget under his persistent gaze—and fail miserably.
My fingers pull at the lace of my dress and then smooth it. Over and over again.
Every time I risk a glance at him, his expression is unchanged. As if this is any other day and both of our lives haven’t just drastically changed. I can’t help but hate how flawless he looks—despite the scars—the line of his jaw reflecting under the city lights.
But it isn’t just that. This man is exquisitely designed to intimidate. His stature screams danger and death. That hard body does things to me that I can’t quite justify in my mind just yet. I can imagine how strong he is, how those large hands of his would fill against my bare skin.
More than that I can imagine how quickly they could snuff the life out of someone as they closed around their trachea. How quickly and efficiently he could snap someone's neck in a single motion.
I gulp at that thought. Am I any safer in his hands then I was at the hands of the Don?
Finally, I clear my throat. “So…”
“Da?”
“Is there…” I hesitate. “I mean, are there other Russian, um, traditions for the wedding night that I should know about?”
His brow arches, considering me. I can feel the weight of his amusement in the small space even before he smiles. My mouth falls in an O at the shift in him.
“Are you asking if I plan to toss you into a room full of vodka-drunk men and play drinking games to guess what lingerie you’re wearing beneath that gown there?”
My face goes hot, a blush racing up my neck and settling over my face. “I’m asking if there’s anything I should expect.”
He laughs at that, a sound so deep and rich that I can’t help but laugh lightly myself.
“I said all that,” he waves his hand dismissively, “to get rid of your brother.”
Still smiling, he leans back, examining me once more. His eyes roam my body. The relaxed way his body responds to the lack of space between us is provocative.
“You lied to him?” I say, aghast. No one dares lie to Nico. “And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he says, feigning innocence with a deep chested laugh. “Can I not look at my new wife? And I strategized, dear Eva. Lying would be telling your brother that I don’t intend to fuck his precious sister tonight and every night for as long as we are wed.”
My blush deepens at his words. I should’ve been prepared for his straightforward bluntness—Nico is the same way—but yet it surprises me.
“I don’t care for fanfare,” he continues. “My men have far better things to do than clap and cheer while I pretend to smile on command. We’re not here to celebrate. This is a business agreement, after all. No, we—you, me, your brother—we all want the same thing. Power.”
His gaze sweeps over me—deliberate and slow, taking me in. From my lips to my throat, to the way the dress hugs my waist. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re darker. Lustful.
“Though,” he says slowly, “there are some parts of this deal that I’m looking forward to.”
My breath catches. A bead of fear runs down my spine as I wonder, for the first time, if I’ve traded one evil for another. He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t move closer or force me to come to him. But the weight of that look makes me gulp in anticipation.
“I may not care about old games,” he murmurs, his accent thick, “but I can think of many far more exciting ways that we could spend the evening.”
Heat coils between my legs, and I can feel my nipples harden against the fabric of my underbust. A response that no other man has ever elicited before.
“Of course you can,” I say quietly, looking away.
His laugh comes again, lighter this time. Raw. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m married to the head of the Russian mafia,” I snap. “Of course I’m nervous.”
“Good, that means you’re smart.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. He’s dangerous. Controlled. Calculated. And now, I belong to him.
I realize then that I’m not afraid of him.
No, I’m afraid of how much I already want to know him.