Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)

I MUST’VE suddenly gone deaf because there’s no way my ears are working right.

Mr. One-Night-Stand turned kidnapper, pitching marriage like it’s a business deal.

Three, two, one. I fill my lungs with air.

“Victor,” I say his name.

“Yes, Laura.”

“Let go of me.” My voice is firmer now. “Please.”

The room goes quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like a buildup to a storm. My eyes are flickering nervously under his intense stare.

Then, abruptly, the fierceness in his eyes dims as though someone flipped a switch. He lets go and leans back. “I apologize.” He breathes in deep, a visible effort to rein in whatever storm brews inside him.

It’s like watching a wolf decide not to bite. Utterly bizarre and kind of terrifying.

Breaking the tension, I blurt out, “Sorry for being rude, but are you out of your freaking mind?”

I’m eyeballing him, trying to play it cool. Sagging into the leather sofa, I say, “Okay, let’s pretend for a second that I’m not totally wigging out. You’ll clear all my debts.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll restore my bookstore?”

“Yes.” He nods like he’s asking me to pass the salt.

“And in exchange, I’ll need to… marry you for a year.”

Taking a sharp breath, he clearly struggles to maintain his composure, pinching the bridge of his nose in silent frustration.

“Yes, Laura, I don’t enjoy repeating myself,” he states firmly. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. This is how it’s going to be.”

Ignoring his irritation, I give him a smile, the kind you give a kid who’s telling a tall tale.

“I’m flattered, really. But there’s a wedding in your grand plan. I’m already married. Too bad, now you’ll just need to find someone else to be your wife.”

I’m scanning his face for any telltale signs, but his face is stone-cold.

“Hello, earth to Victor?” I try to snag his attention, but he’s striding over to his desk. God, he’s somehow managed to get even more good-looking since I last saw him. My gaze trails after him like it’s got a mind of its own.

Seriously, who’s built like that?

There’s an intensity about him today that’s hard to miss. He’s wearing this white shirt, casually unbuttoned at the top, showing off just enough to tease. His hair’s got this perfect, I-don’t-care-but-I-totally-do look.

Jesus, Laur.

I shift uncomfortably, crossing my legs. This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t be noticing these things, not now. But Lord, why does he look like he just walked straight off of one of those steamy book covers?

Cut it out, Laur, focus.

I watch Victor pick up a brown file from his desk. He lifts his gaze; his gray eyes catch mine. For a moment, I think I see… No, it can’t be… A hint of sympathy?

“No, kiska, that’s not marriage. You got played,” he says, his voice cold again.

Victor strides over. I try to swallow, but my throat is dry.

“You got played for cash in a scam and sham by the man you thought was David Gardner.”

“Wha-what?” I’m struggling to comprehend. “What are you talking about?”

He lays the file down in front of me. “The man you believed is your husband is just a fiction; his real name is Dave Jankowski.”

“Th-that’s not true,” I stutter; everything in me feels like it’s crashing down. “Stop… stop… lying.”

“No, Laura, your marriage to David is a lie.”

I let out a nervous laugh, shaking my head in denial. “No… you don’t know… you don’t know what you are talking about.” I search his face for clues, clues that all of this is just a fucking joke.

He leans closer, and the scent of cedarwood from him envelops me. It’s a weird thing to notice when my entire life is unraveling.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

My stomach twists into knots.

Stop. Please.

“David Gardner is dead.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Anger flares, but it’s drowned out by confusion and fear.

I knew David cheated and scammed all my money… But dead?

I’m biting my lips. Hard. Trying to process everything. But I can’t; nothing seems to make sense anymore.

“The real David died five years ago,” he continues, his voice deep and sure. “You, Laura Anne Thompson, are a victim of marriage fraud.”

It’s like my brain refuses to process his words.

Victor flicks open the folder, presenting it to me as if unveiling a verdict.

I reach out, hand shaking as I sift through the documents—the irrefutable proof in photos, reports, and a death certificate.

I stare at it.

My eyes keep darting back to the name printed so clearly on the paper: David Gardner. Born in 1966, fifty-eight years old at the time of his death. Cause of death: A DUI accident.

I’m gripping the death certificate, my fingers nearly crumpling the paper.

Everything in the room seems to tilt as I flip through the police reports. Each one is a stark reality check, outlining frauds and scams, all tied back to the man I called my husband.

“This can’t be right…” My voice is a faint whisper. I can’t tear my gaze away from the photos that follow. There he is, “David,” or whoever he really is, with dyed hair, a cap pulled low. He’s trying not to be recognized, but it’s clearly him. And there’s Polly, always a shadow in the background.

My hands shake as I sift through more photos—motel entries, dark alley dealings. It’s like peering into a parallel universe where my husband is a ghost, a phantom I never really knew.

“Laura,” I hear Victor say my name. “I’m the only way out for you now.”

Victor nonchalantly pulls out his phone and commands, “Come in.”

Seconds later, the door opens, and two men in suits stride in.

“Wha-what’s going on?” My voice is shaky.

The first man, exuding an air of strict professionalism, extends a hand toward me. “Ms. Thompson, I’m Andrew Taylor, legal counsel for Morozov Corporation. I’m here to discuss your marriage contract with Mr. Morozov.”

My head spins. “Marriage contract?” Without fully realizing why, my hand moves on its own to meet Andrew’s in a handshake.

Andrew offers a thin smile. “Yes, given the circumstances, it is necessary. You’ll find everything in order.” He hands me a thick document.

I glance over at Victor, who remains silent, his gaze fixed on me.

“What the hell is this insane situation?” I blurt out.

I glance beyond Andrew to the other man stationed like a guard by the door, an unspoken barrier between me and any thought of escape. The towering figure with a broad chest sports a rugged look, complete with a beard and sharp, blue eyes that seem to pierce through me. There’s a smirk playing on his lips, one that irks me deeply.

I’m staring at Victor, then at Andrew, disbelief clouding my judgment. “But… but I’m a married woman.” I may have been duped by David, but that marriage certificate must mean something, surely?

“Not anymore, Ms. Thompson.” Andrew calmly seats himself across from me, sliding a sheaf of papers across the table. My hands tremble as I pick them up, my eyes scanning the title incredulously. “Divorce Decree Finalized,” it reads, official stamps and signatures littering the bottom of the page.

My heart skips. “But how is this… even possible?”

“Let’s just say we have our ways with certain… judicial processes.” Andrew forces a smile at me.

I stare at Victor “Are you fucking insane?” I stand up abruptly.

I try to steady myself as Victor moves closer, his aura exuding a mix of danger and control. He takes a seat next to me.

“Kiska, what’s insane is that you married a man when you have no clue who he really is,” he says, his voice low and steady.

I can’t hold back the tears that start to flow. He’s right. My entire marriage, everything, has been a fucking lie.

“But… why me?” I manage to ask through sobs, wiping away tears. “Why…?”

“Because,” Victor’s tone is icy as he tilts my face up to his, “you’re just a pawn. And now? You’re Morozov Bratva property.”