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

PUSHED INTO the bathroom, the door bangs shut behind me.

Ksenia’s parting shot echoes in my head.

“I don’t know what my brother sees in you. Just try not to die before the contract is up.”

Leaning against the door, I let out a silent scoff.

“Trust me, Ksenia, the feeling’s mutual. I’ve no idea what your brother sees in me, either. And dying wasn’t on my to-do list today.” A snort breaks free as I consider the sibling connection.

“Great, so she’s Victor’s sister. Makes sense. They’re both drop-dead gorgeous and have the same kind, charming personality,” I huff quietly.

Wow.

The reality of my situation hits me like a bucket of ice water. Kidnapped, divorced, and now engaged to a mafia lord—all in the span of what, a day?

I shove my hair back from my face, fingers trembling slightly, trying to anchor myself to the moment.

Ew. My hair is a tangled thicket, infused with yesterday’s fear and turmoil. I haven’t had the chance to scrub away the remnants of yesterday’s chaos since I woke up in Eli’s room.

Suddenly, I remember hearing David’s—no, Dave’s—whatever his damn name is, voice on the phone before I got kidnapped in my own home.

Has he been watching me this whole time?

Disgust washes over me like a second skin. It’s all just too much. Pushing that creepy thought to the back of my mind, I force out a deep, steadying breath. My gaze finally drifts upwards, taking in the luxury of the bathroom once more.

Holy cow.

It’s fancy in here, way fancier than anywhere I should be. White marble everywhere, looking expensive and cold. There’s a huge tub under a window; most likely costs more than I earn in a month.

There’s a sink that’s too pretty to spit toothpaste into and a bunch of soaps and stuff that probably smell like money.

Two plush, white bathrobes hang on a hook by the door, a big glass thing with more showerheads than I’ve got fingers. Looks like it could blast the dirt off a dinosaur.

Jesus. At least I’m alone for the first time in what feels like forever.

I press my ear against the door, straining for any sound of the maids.

Silence greets me. But I know that they are right outside.

Waiting.

Plotting their next move in the “Make Laura Presentable” production ordered by Ksenia. The thought makes me want to lock the door and hide in the tub.

A sudden knock at the door yanks me from my brief respite. The voice that follows is unmistakably Russian, tinged with a coldness that brooks no argument.

“Please hurry. Your presence is expected at dinner in two hours. We need to start getting you ready,” the voice instructs, its authority clear even through the closed door.

I straighten up, steeling myself.

For fuck’s sake.

“Alright, just give me a moment,” I call back, though I sound a lot less confident than I’d like.

I glance at myself in the mirror, trying to muster some semblance of the person I need to be to face whatever’s next. My reflection stares back, a mix of determination and nerves.

“Two hours,” I remind myself.

I quickly strip off the bathrobe and step into the shower, cranking up the hot water as high as I can tolerate it.

As I lather soap onto my body, I catch a whiff of soap from the nearby tray. My hand automatically reaches for it, squeezing out a tiny bit and bringing it to my nose.

Umm…

It smells like men’s soap. His scent. A rugged blend of wood and spice.

A choked gasp escapes me as I remember his cock, hard and unyielding between my lips, filling me with equal parts shame and arousal.

How can my body betray me like this? Crave the touch of a man who holds me captive, who has made clear his intentions to possess me in every way imaginable?

Laur, get a grip on yourself.

This is not a love story; it is a deal struck with the devil himself.

The thought of sharing this bathroom with Victor makes bile rise in my throat. I can almost feel his presence looming over me, even though I am alone.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter to myself before turning on the shower again to drown out my dirty thoughts.

I grab a bottle of shampoo and work it into my hair with more force than necessary. The suds slide down my body and swirl around my feet, carrying away some of the shame that weighs on me.

Stepping out of the shower and getting back into a bathrobe, steam clouds around me. My hair drips onto the marble floor as two maids walk in and nudge me toward the dressing table. They’d waited just outside the room, exactly as I expected.

The sight of the massive bed catches my eye—it dominates the room; the scent of lavender and sandalwood drifts from the sheets.

Tempting and sinful.

My thoughts turn to Victor yet again, his body pressed against mine as we sink into the softness of the sheets.

Ugh, stop it! Have some self-control, damnit.

I barely have a moment to gawk at the bed when they plant me in front of a mirror. This dressing table’s as over-the-top as everything else here. While the maids fuss over my dripping hair, I hear those telltale heels.

Click, click, click.

Someone’s coming, and they’re not happy.

A woman materializes in the mirror’s reflection, her beauty masking a simmering rage. Her eyes meet mine in the reflection, sharp enough to cut through steel.

“So, you’re the one,” she hisses, her Russian accent dripping with disdain.

I swallow hard, meeting her glare in the mirror. “I guess… I am,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You’re nothing like I expected,” she sneers, circling around to face me. “Victor’s never had such… plain taste.”

Ouch.

That hurts more than I’d like to admit. I bet Victor’s usual type is leagues away from a “plain Laura” like me. It hits me then—she’s got a thing for Victor. I’m suddenly the lead in a drama I never auditioned for.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” I shoot back, but my voice quivers, betraying me.

She rolls her eyes at me.

“Surprises? Doubtful,” she retorts.

Grabbing a comb, she begins to work through my hair with more force than necessary, clearly enjoying each tug a bit too much.

“What’s your name?” I ask, my jaw clenched tight, biting back the pain.

“Irina,” she snaps quietly, her focus more on punishing my scalp than making introductions.

I wince as she yanks through a particularly stubborn knot. “Nice to meet you, Irina.”

Ignoring me, she continues pulling and twisting my hair into a sleek, simple style that somehow manages to look elegant despite the rough handling.

She draws in a short breath. “I don’t know why he chose an American girl,” she mutters under her breath, probably thinking I can’t hear her.

But I do.

“Well, I don’t know why either,” I retort before I can stop myself.

Irina pretends not to hear me, but I catch a slight twitch in her cheek. She abruptly pushes the chair back and hauls out a massive makeup suitcase.

I stare, wide-eyed, at the arsenal of makeup before me. “Holy… Are you painting a mural on my face or something?” I can’t help but quip, eyeing the array of colors and brushes.

Irina mutters something in Russian, a clear note of annoyance in her voice, then exhales loudly, switching back to English with a sharp edge. “Eyes shut,” Irina orders, not amused by my comment.

I comply, feeling the brush strokes sweep over my eyelids.

The makeover continues in tense silence, broken only by the occasional sharp command from Irina.

“Chin up.”

“Eyes still.”

“Hold steady.”

Why do I need to be dolled up like I’m attending the Grammy Awards ceremony?

Finally, after what feels like an eternity in the chair, she stops.

“You’re done,” Irina declares abruptly, snapping her makeup case shut. I take a deep breath and open my eyes, meeting the gaze of someone I hardly recognize in the mirror.

“Wow,” I can’t help but let the word escape, my shock evident.

Who the hell is this person staring back at me?

“I look like someone else,” I gasp out, still stunned. Irina’s attempt to stay stern falters for a moment, and a shadow of a smile sneaks onto her face. She quickly smothers it, though, turning to signal the maids.

“Bring the dresses,” she barks, shifting back to business.

Two maids approach, each bearing a dress so stunning it momentarily steals my breath. One is a sleek black number, its fabric shimmering subtly in the light, embodying elegance and mystery. The other is a nude, ethereal gown, its chiffon fabric flowing and delicate, like something out of an old, elegant painting.

“For me?” I can’t help but ask.

“Of course, it is. Stand up now. We need to get you ready,” she says, her tone cold and stern.

“I can dress myself,” I insist, pulling away from her and locking eyes. “Please, just give me some space.”

Resignation mixes with annoyance as Irina exhales sharply and mutters something in Russian to the maids, who reluctantly step back and hand me the dresses.

The fabric glides through my fingers like a silken dream. I look at the black dress; my breath catches in my throat as I glimpse the label—Chanel.

“Chanel,” I repeat in disbelief, unable to believe that I am actually holding a piece of luxury fashion in my hands.

My eyes land on the other dress, the McQueen one. It’s classy, and it looks fucking expensive—practically screams that I’m out of my depth. “Am I really wearing these?” I whisper to myself, the idea of it all feeling like some elaborate prank.

Damn.

I picture myself stumbling, a wave of chocolate ruining thousands of dollars of fabric. The thought makes me suck in a breath.

Irina’s impatience is palpable, her tapping heel a metronome counting down my hesitation. “Well? Are you going to try them on or not?” Her finger jabs in the direction of the dressing room.

Okay, princess transformation it is.

But my so-called fairy godmother is clearly on a schedule.

I take a step toward the dressing room. A smirk dances on my lips at the thought of fleeing at midnight, my fancy attire left behind.

Just then, a small, energetic figure appears at the top of the staircase.

“Boo!” She’s all giggles, twirling in her mini gown. Eli comes charging into the room like a little tornado, full of energy.

“Okay, I’m not scared of you anymore.” I keep my voice light, though I half-expect Ksenia to follow her lead, but the staircase remains empty.

“Laura, you’re not dressed yet?” Eli’s question is more of an impatient nudge. “I’m here to bring you to dinner.”

Her mother’s absence is a small relief. “I don’t know which dress to wear,” I admit, sticking out my tongue at her.

“Laura! You’re an adult!” she tries to scold me, her little face serious. “You should know everything.”

Oh, my sweet girl, if only that were true.

“Well, sometimes the adults…” I kneel down to her level, searching for words that could bridge our worlds, “they have to make tough choices, just like kids do.”

“That’s okay, Laura.” She nods solemnly. “Sometimes, I’m not sure…” she pauses, her face scrunching in thought, “why Yuri is sad, but I give him the biggest hugs.”

I don’t know who Yuri is, but I nod slightly, biting back my curiosity. “Maybe later you can tell me about Yuri.”

Eli just nods, her little face beaming up again.

“Eli, darling, can you help me pick?” I gesture toward the dresses in my hands, bending down to show her.

She points eagerly at the McQueen dress, her small hand barely steady. “This one!” She beams. “It’s the same color as mine!” And she twirls again, her dress fanning out around her.

“Perfect choice.” I feel a flicker of excitement, a shared moment of kinship, as I head for the dressing room.

“Hurry up, Laura!” Eli’s tone shifts, her inner general taking charge. “Dedushka is waiting.”

“Dedushka?” I ask. “What does it mean?”

“Dedushka means grandfather,” she educates me with a proud puff of her chest. “Grandfather can’t wait to meet you.”

And just like that, the warmth fizzles out, replaced by a cold sense of dread.

I am so fuckitty-fucked.