Page 21 of The Bratva Enforcer's Virgin Debt

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They all sigh, almost in unison.

Roman steps forward first, his tone gentler than before. “We’re on your side, Konstantin. Whatever this turns into—we’re with you.”

“I know,” I say.

Dimitri nods once. “We’ll take our leave. Preparations will stay contained.”

Lev holds my gaze a moment longer, searching for something he doesn’t name. Then he inclines his head. “We’ll be back for the wedding.”

I nod.

They exit.

The door closes behind them, sealing the room in silence.

I remain where I am, hands braced on the edge of the table, and take a slow, measured breath.

Then I walk out.

Raelyn is in the corner of the guest room when I enter, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looks smaller like this. Fragile in a way she refuses to admit. Her eyes snap up when she sees me, fear and fury colliding in equal measure.

I close the door behind me and cross the room.

I kneel in front of her.

Her breath stutters.

“The wedding will be today,” I say calmly. “There will be no delay.”

Her head jerks back as if I’ve struck her.

“No,” she whispers. “You’re insane.”

“You will be protected,” I continue, unmoved. “But you will also be bound. To me. To the Rusnak family. Completely.”

She recoils, pressing herself farther into the corner, shaking her head. “You’re a monster,” she breathes. “You can’t do this. I want my life back.”

Something sharp twists in my chest.

I ignore it.

“This is your life now,” I say evenly. “And soon enough, you’ll understand why this was the only way.”

Her eyes fill, but she doesn’t cry. She just stares at me like she’s memorizing my face—like hatred alone might keep her whole.

I rise to my feet.

“Rest,” I tell her. “You’ll need the strength.”

And as I turn away, I do not allow myself to look back.

She hates me, but I don’t care. She’ll be my wife, and I’ll never let her go.

Chapter 5 – Raelyn

I stand in the guest room, heart pounding, staring at the wedding dress laid out on the bed.

Ivory satin. Sleeveless. Minimalist. Elegant in a quiet, deliberate way—like it was chosen to offend no one and impress everyone.