Seduction: A Dark Bratva Fake Marriage Romance (Wicked Vows)

We walk hand in hand outside the family home, the skyline casting a faint pink glow on falling dusk around us. Nikko walks at my side so that he’s between me and the street. Just like he did in Moscow.

“Vera,” he begins at the same time I say, “Nikko?”

It feels strange saying his real name, but a part of me rejoices. We need to start over. To begin again. What better than with a new name, a new location, a new family?

My heart is in my throat when he turns to me, and I see the toll this has all taken on him. The lines around his mouth and eyes and the weight on his shoulders make him look tired and belabored. I want to smooth out those lines. Sit on his lap and tell him I still love him. That I understand. He was torn between loyalty and honor and chose what he thought best. But I don’t tell him any of that.

When I open my mouth to speak. . . he kisses me.

My eyes flutter closed at the feel of his mouth on mine. I sigh, allowing myself to finally actually breathe.

My breath catches when he tangles his fingers in my hair. I sigh and melt into him, into the warmth of his embrace and his claiming mouth on mine. I moan when his tongue licks mine. I move closer. The next thing I know, his hands are under my ass, my legs are wrapped around him, and he’s carrying us to a wrought-iron bench beside a leafy bush.

Sitting down, he positions me to straddle his lap and pulls back slightly. Our foreheads touch. His voice cracks when he begs for forgiveness. “Vera, please. I want to tell you I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry for lying to you.”

“You thought my family was responsible for attacking yours, and to a degree, you were right. You have a sworn duty and loyalty to your family. And while you had a plan. . . you didn’t act on it, Mar—” He isn’t Markov. That’s gonna take some time.

“I never thought I would be able to forgive someone for lying to me, but. . . you took a bullet for me. And by most standards, I’d think. . . I—” My voice gets all choked up. For some reason, just being this close to him and seeing the earnest expression in his eyes brings everything to the surface. Everything. My father’s gone. Irina betrayed us. Markov isn’t Markov. We’re going to be married tomorrow. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t. I’m choking on emotions in a way I didn’t even with my mother, my best friend.

“Nikko. . . ” I whisper. “Nikko Romanov.” It feels right saying his real name. When I blink, a fat tear rolls down my cheek. I need to release these pent-up feelings before I explode.

I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down when he swallows, his own emotions choking him. “Yes. And I promise you, Vera. I meant every word I said about how much I love you. I meant every word I said about wanting to protect you. And now that we’ll be married, those circumstances are behind us. My love, there will never be so much as the glimmer of a lie between us again.”

When he cups my face in his hands in that familiar, possessive way of his, he captures my gaze. In that moment, the world dissolves around us, leaving nothing but the space we occupy. It’s just us, and in this fleeting instant, that’s all that matters.

Us.

“I love you, Vera,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, resonating with the depth of his feelings. “I love you more than anyone in the world. And tomorrow, it will be my honor to proclaim my vows to you.”

Tears burn in my eyes, hot and relentless, as I respond, “And I love you, endlessly.” My voice breaks. “Tomorrow, we start anew. We’re not just continuing where we left off, but forging our way forward. We’ll do this because we owe it to our families. And we owe it to us.”

He kisses me again, with a passion so fierce it steals my breath. Each touch reignites the fire within me, a fire only he has the power to kindle.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head when we finally break the kiss. “I will not make love to you the night before our wedding. We have to save ourselves for the big day.” His voice becomes a growl. “But you’re not making it any easier for me.”

I kiss him again, teasingly, this time smiling when he pinches my ass to punish me for being so sassy.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he groans, adjusting himself beneath me.

I rest my head on his chest and feel his strong arms around me.

“You pretended to only speak Russian to keep your distance, didn’t you?”

“Mmm.”

“And that didn’t work. So then you pretended to be my bodyguard, but even that wasn’t a very good ruse because you did, indeed, function as my bodyguard.”

“Yes.”

“And then you pretended to be my husband. . .”

“Which also didn’t work because I could not pretend to be something of such great significance without actually embracing the role.”

Of course he couldn’t. It would contradict everything in him.

We sit in the quiet for long moments, half shrouded in bushes that flank the walk with vibrant green, the evening sky darkening with every second that passes. Clouds pass by overhead, gray wisps barely visible in the dark blue of an evening sky. The scent of roses in full bloom, late summer’s farewell, linger in the air, a gentle breeze stirring the petals around us. Amidst the fading sun and chirping crickets, I grant forgiveness. It seems fitting to be in a garden, a place that promises new life.

“I didn’t want you to say that you loved me, even though I already knew I loved you. I feared you’d be hurt even worse than I knew you were going to be. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything hurting you anymore.”

I nod against his chest. “I know that now. I know. It hurt at first, but we couldn’t state our love for one another when we were still so tied to those lies.”

“Yes. But I don’t ever want you to doubt my love for you.”

“If ever I do,” I say with a smile. “I’ll remember the way you threw your whole body in front of me. Instinctively. As if it were the only option.”

He smiles sadly.

“I love roses,” I whisper, as our fingers entwine. “They’re so classy and sturdy. They have a timeless beauty and are rich in meaning. I love that they’re around your family estate.”

“Our friends planted them years ago. My mother loved them for similar reasons.”

“I love your mother, too,” I whisper, earning me a fervent kiss on my forehead.

“She doesn’t know you yet, but when she does, she will love you, too.”

I look at our hands touching: his, bigger and rougher and etched with ink, and mine paler, smaller, with a few ink stains from a recent run-in with a defiant pen during a lab.

“It’s bad luck for us to make love before our wedding night,” he repeats seriously. It seems he adheres to Russian traditions more than I do but at the same time, I want to respect that. “You will stay with your mother, as is tradition, and I will stay with my brothers. And tomorrow, my love? Tomorrow, Vera, we wed.”