Moving to the living room, I sat on Alik’s great-grandmother’s antique chair, which dated back to the Revolution. There, I waited dutifully to say good-bye.

I surveyed the mostly early twentieth-century opulent furnishings in the room. This place screamed status and wealth. My stomach clenched in dread. In under twelve months’ time, this would become my home. I would be queen of this penthouse, gaoled in a cell of Tsarist luxury. Bratva convention demanded I couldn’t live with Alik until we were married. Ordered directly from my deeply traditional and faithful Russian Orthodox father. I thanked God every single day for that fact.

My father approved of the marriage. It suited our way of life. He didn’t see the bad side of Alik, and if he did, he ignored it. He only saw the strong and ruthless man Alik had been molded to be by his father. To my father, Alik’s stern and violent side only proved he was a perfect soldier of the Bratva, the perfect man to take the reins and be a good leader to his daughter. My mama died when I was fifteen. My papa had fallen apart, and Alik became my crutch, the boy to look after me when everything had gone to hell. Papa loved him for that.

I clung to the thought that I still had a year until we were married, which offered fleeting moments of freedom, before, of course, adopting the mantle of the perfect Bratva wife to the sole remaining heir of the Bratva. Alik, before long, would control all of the Russian underground, a position he thirsted for, something for which he’d been groomed his entire life.

Hearing the shower turn off, it didn’t take a minute for Alik to boom out my name and rush through the living room’s double doors to search for me.

His tense face slackened as he saw me sitting, dutifully waiting, in his grandmother’s chair. His head cocked to the side as his eyes narrowed.

“For a minute there, I thought you’d left before I gave you permission. For a minute there, I thought you had defied me, Myshka… For a minute there, I thought you’d lost your fucking mind.”

Standing, I switched on a smile. I strolled over to stand before him and ran my finger slowly down his chest.

“Never, baby,” I purred to appease him. “I’d never defy you. I never have and I never will.”

Alik wrapped his arms round my waist and pulled me to his damp chest, the impact robbing me of my breath. He held me in place by the back of my head.

“You’re gonna make the perfect wife, Kisa. I’ve been wanting you in my bed, sleeping beside me, for too fucking long. I hate sending you back to your father every night, not being able to fuck you for hours, tying you to the bed, making you scream, making you bow down to my every command… fuck you until you can’t walk. Been wanting to fully own you, to possess you, to release you from the Pakhan’s grip and have you under my complete control… for too fucking long.”

“Soon, baby,” I soothed.

Alik loosened his grip on my hair, his harsh blue eyes losing their anger for the briefest of moments.

“Yeah,” he replied. Slapping me hard on the ass, he pressed a bruising, owning kiss to my swollen lips. Alik swiftly broke away and, walking back to his bedroom, shouted over his shoulder, “Serge is downstairs. He’ll take you to church.” I relaxed but stiffened when he ordered, “Only after you change. Don’t you dare go out looking like that. I’ll seriously lose my fucking shit if you do!”

“I won’t. I love you, baby. Always,” I blurted. This stopped Alik in his tracks.

He turned, jerked his chin, a flicker of a smirk curling his upper lip, and he said, “Myshka, I love you too.”

My shoulders sagged with relief at his show of affection. I calmed. It was during these tender moments that I glimpsed the small amount of humanity in Alik. These were the moments I cherished. Even as children, Alik was uptight, always angry, always wanting to inflict pain on others; he frequently did on other kids. His papa had raised him to be this way. I understood it; it was how Brava men had to be raised. But years of fighting and killing in The Dungeon had hardened him to the point where the kinder side of his personality grew weaker and weaker, the dark steadily and surely blotting out any light that remained. In this Bratva life, and with what Alik did for a living, it was essential he be this way. However, I wished his softer side would linger a little longer.

It was stupid of me and, to others, inexplicable. But I loved Alik in my own way, well, as much as my shredded heart would allow. I wanted him to have peace. He was so tormented… so dark inside that I just wanted to help ease that.

Lost in Alik’s light, beautiful smile, my heart soared, floating on a loving hope that I would see some good in him, that I’d finally got through to him, but my reverie soon dissipated when, as always, his brief moment of gentleness was overwhelmed by harshness.

Alik’s insane desire to possess me came to the fore as he warned, “Anyone even looks at you tonight or even speaks to you, you tell me. And act appropriately. Don’t speak to men… only Father Kruschev. Don’t want my woman looking like a whore. “

I nodded dutifully. His eyes narrowed as they drank in my body. “Wear something that covers you, all of you. I don’t wanna have to kill some fucker for staring at your tits. You’ve got to think about these things, Myshka. When you’re my wife, when I own you completely, there’ll be no mistakes. I’ll whip you into shape soon enough. You’ll be an example to all the Bratva wives.”

“Okay, baby,” I whispered in trepidation.