Claiming His Captured, Broken And Sinful Bride

Naomi It was my wedding day. I had dreamed of this day since I was a little girl. I dreamt of what I would wear. I dreamt about my father smiling at me with tears in his eyes as he walked me down the aisle. I dreamt about my mother blinking away tears of joy when she saw me in a veil that floated down my back, the gossamer material caressing my bare shoulders. My best friend Ilsa would giggle and carry on as she helped me put on the garter belt, and we would toast the happiest day of my life with champagne and wine while my hair and makeup were being done. It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I drew in a shuddering breath and looked at the woman staring back at me in the full-length mirror, searching for any remote sign of happiness in her eyes. There was none. I couldn’t even fake it, and as an actress, I prided myself on faking just about any sort of emotion. Instead, the woman in the mirror stared back with other emotions: dread, apprehension, and fear. My father wasn’t here. My mother wasn’t here. Ilsa wasn’t here. I was alone, and the only person who had once accompanied me had already left the room, her tasks complete. Maybe it was for the best. Because if they knew what lay in store for me, their hearts would break. They’d beg for me to be released from the terrible fate that awaited me, and if I knew anything about my husband-to-be, he’d force them to watch as he claimed me at the altar. I touched one of the curls draped over my shoulder, teased and styled so solidly in place that a hurricane couldn’t move them. Outwardly I was the picture-perfect bride. No expenses had been spared. The undergarments I wore under the dress were lace and silk, probably the most expensive set I had ever put on. The dress, well, it wasn’t the one I would have chosen, but it exuded the wealth and power that I was about to marry into. But no amount of perfection could hide the ugly, horrific truth. This marriage was a lie. And I was a captive bride in all but name. It had all started when I was trying to help my best friend Ilsa, a detective with the LAPD, and her husband Roman, don of the Marchetti Mafia, save a young Russian girl—Sveta Orlov—who had been ripped from her family at the expense of her maniacal father. Since I was the only one that Ilsa knew who spoke Russian, they had brought her to me, and I had helped concoct a foolproof plan. Unfortunately, the plan had gone sideways before my part had come up. Sveta had been killed. Ilsa and Roman had been forced to take down her father by themselves, along with all who were involved. I’d thought that would have been the end of it. I was so wrong. Now I was about to marry a monster. Gavril Kirilenko. The very name sent a shiver down my spine. I didn’t know anything about him other than he was dangerous and powerful. He had made me do terrible, shameful things in the short time that I knew him. He had stripped away my dignity and made me aware of just how powerless I was in his hands. The things he made me do…Oh God. I didn’t want to think about them. And now, I was going to marry him. What other choice did I have? I thought about telling him the truth, but based on what he said to me, based on what he had made me do, I knew that a worse fate than being his wife awaited me if he found out the truth. And so, I had to pretend to be Sveta until I could find a way out of this. I had no means of contacting anyone. My cell phone had been taken away when I was kidnapped from my apartment a few days ago. Aside from Ilsa and my agent, no one else was going to be looking for me. Well…there was one other person. But there was no way in hell I wanted him to find me. Honestly, I had a pretty sad life outside of my social media pages. Those showed a woman who enjoyed life, one who seemed to have it all: money, influence, popularity, self-confidence. In reality, I didn’t have any of those things. Most of the clothing I wore was from thrift shops all around LA. I just knew which ones received the leftovers from the production companies and celebrities. Popularity was easy when you were going to all the places that everyone else wanted to go to. I had the gift of gab, just about able to talk my way into anything. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I had a pretty face, or at least that was what they told me. My long blonde hair was just like any other girl in LA; my pale body helped me stand out among the fake tanners that I usually shared an interview room with. I kept my body in top shape because getting acting gigs required that I look my best. All that my looks had gotten me was a few B-rated films that had paid enough for me to pay my rent in LA, but so far, nothing had panned out to pay more. A few of the gigs that my agent had found were promising, but now all that was my past. I had missed those appointments. And if anything, Chuck had probably written me off as another blonde bimbo lost to LA. If he only knew that I was about to play the biggest acting role of my life. The door opened behind me, and I lowered the veil, obscuring my features from everyone. I had to do this. I had to make sure that no one believed me to be anyone else other than Sveta, not until I could find a way to contact Roman or Ilsa to get me the hell out of this mess. Turning, I tried to portray the meek girl who knew nothing about the world she had been thrust into. They knew me as a girl who spoke no English, and it had proven difficult for me to maintain the air of speaking flawless Russian. Thank God for my electives in college or I would be screwed. The man at the door held out his arm and I took it, keeping my hand from trembling as I laid it on the sleeve of his suit coat. The church I had been brought to earlier was one I recognized, the Holy Transfiguration Russian Orthodox Church. It was one I had filmed a soap opera episode in once before, a gorgeous sanctuary that would be on any bride’s most wanted list for a perfect wedding day. My dour-faced guide moved me before a set of heavy wooden doors, and my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. This was it. There was no turning back. What would Ilsa say about this? Would she urge me on? Doubtful. She would tell me that I was crazy and have Roman whisk me somewhere to hide. A sudden rush of tears assaulted my eyes and threatened to ruin my makeup. I blinked them back, clearing my vision once more. I wasn’t going to cry. Not today. I had already cried enough since I had been taken. Tears didn’t solve anything, and they sure as hell weren’t going to get me out of this. The doors opened and I was forced to step forward onto the shiny lacquered floor, looking up at the vaulted ceilings and ornate carvings that were at the end of a long aisle. Surprisingly the wooden pews were packed with guests, all standing and turning as the pipe organ music swelled. None of their faces were familiar, and my heart wrenched in my chest. I wanted my family here. I wanted my friends here. Hell, I wanted a man who actually cared about me waiting at the end of the aisle. I wanted to feel happiness instead of emptiness and dread. I wanted to cry tears of joy instead of tears of fear. This was supposed to be a day I wanted to remember. Not a waking nightmare I wanted to forget. Somehow I made myself move down the aisle, my head held high, the only sounds the music in the large sanctuary. No one spoke, no one whispered, as if they were frozen in place, surprised that they were attending a wedding after all. The closer I got, the tighter the knots grew in my stomach. He was there, waiting for a woman he thought he was going to wed. Instead, he would be getting an actress that had no ties to any Bratvas. He would be marrying a poor girl from a blue-collar family that could barely rub two coins together some days, a woman who could give him none of the power he was looking for. Even if I did lose my life over this, at least the biggest joke was about to be played on him. I took the steps up to the altar and turned, my train cascading down the steps behind me. Only then did I allow myself to look at my soon-to-be husband—Gavril Kirilenko. His hands were clasped before him, the silver ring on his right hand catching the low lamplight. He was dressed in a black suit, his white shirt a bright contrast to his tanned skin underneath. His dark brown hair was slicked back on his head, exposing his wide forehead and a set of high cheekbones dusted with the beginnings of a beard. Gavril’s eyes were almost gray in color and as he gazed at me intensely, I fought the urge to run back down the aisle screaming. There was no warmth in his stare. No affection. No love. The only thing I saw staring back at me was inky coldness. The man before me wasn’t a kind man. I had already found that out in more ways than I’d liked. I doubted there was a bone in his body that could even understand what kindness was. My heart wanted to hang onto the fact that Roman, Ilsa’s husband, had been the same way. She had given me their complete, sordid tale and how he had turned from a cold-blooded killer to a man that cared about her and their unborn child above all else. But as I looked at Gavril, I knew I couldn’t cling to that hope. This man was born and bred to be harsh, and nothing was going to change that. Least of all me. A monster like him shouldn’t be so damn gorgeous. Gavril filled out his suit nicely, from his broad shoulders to the tapered waist and everything in between. As my eyes roamed over his impeccably dressed form, my stomach tightened at the memory of what he was capable of. A memory that I would never admit to liking. Gavril was power, danger, and s*x all wrapped up. And in a few moments, he would be my husband. No, I reminded myself. Not my husband. Not Naomi Spencer’s husband. He was marrying Sveta Orlov. The priest cleared his throat, and Gavril gave him a curt nod. “Begin,” he said in Russian. Thank God I had taken that Russian class in college. I thought it was a useless elective years ago, and now, that useless class might be the only thing that was keeping me alive. The priest started, and Gavril took my hand in his. His touch was warm, and I tried to fool myself into believing that it was reassuring. But I knew better. There was nothing soft about this man, nothing that was going to make me feel at ease. He’d made me do unspeakable things before this day. And the thought of what he’d do after his ring slipped on my finger sent a shudder down my spine. A few times I was forced to kneel before the priest with Gavril, keeping my eyes downcast so he couldn’t see the indecision there behind my veil. I wasn’t very religious and had only attended a handful of Catholic weddings in my day, but never a Russian Orthodox one. Everything was different, and I didn’t understand the protocol. Each time, though, Gavril helped me rise, his hand tight on mine as if he knew my thoughts. What more could he expect? He was marrying me without my consent. Any woman would want to run away from this madness! “And now the rings,” the priest finally said, balancing two circles of gold on his Bible. My breath caught as I stared at them, wondering why I thought he wouldn’t wear one. Gavril didn’t seem like the type of man who wanted to be known as having a wife, but then again, I wasn’t just going to be a wife. I was going to be a means to an end, a source of power for him. Little did he know that nothing he was doing was going to help him in any way. Sveta was dead. Her father was dead. Gavril wasn’t going to get anything out of this marriage. A bubble of laughter nearly escaped me at the thought, but I choked it back as Gavril reached for the smaller circle. He took it and slid it onto my hand. The ring itself was simple and elegant. I could see the scroll of designs on the metal and realized it looked older than I first realized. It was a family heirloom. The cool metal immediately warmed on my finger, and even though it was light and airy, it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Like a shackle that bound me to him. Forever. My fingers trembled as I took the solid gold ring from the priest and turned to Gavril. He held out his hand, and I hesitated. There were so many other things I would have liked to do with the ring, and each one would have resulted in my death. For a moment, I toyed with the idea that I could still end this. That I could choose to go out on my own terms. But powerless and wordless, I slid the ring on his finger, past his scarred knuckle, until it rested at the base. I barely had time to draw in a breath before Gavril’s hand cupped the back of my neck and pulled the veil back from my face. His eyes were dark with intent. I gasped right before his lips closed against mine, and his hungry tongue pushed into my mouth, swallowing my small yelps of resistance. His rough hand pulled me closer, and I felt his insistent heat throbbing against the thin fabric of my dress—a promise of what was to come. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. I was his. To own. To use. To ruin. Forever. That was it. We were married.