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

THE CLOCK on the wall chimes nine. Its sound is rich, like everything else here.

Two hours in, I’m frozen in place, like a rag doll set out for show.

Finally, our twelfth dish makes its grand entrance, a delicate dessert that looks more like art than food.

The Michelin Star chef himself emerges from the kitchen. This culinary wizard, with sleeves rolled up over tattooed arms and stubble shadowing his jaw, looks like he’s just won a battle as he sets down a plate of tiny, almost laughable pastries.

“Our finale,” he announces, “a deconstructed tiramisu, paired with a raspberry coulis and a quenelle of white chocolate mousse. And for our young miss,” the chef declares, “we’ve specially prepared an alcohol-free Chocolate Degustation. Please, enjoy.”

I bite back a laugh, puzzled by the tiny portions.

Mental note: Rich folks have weird standards for what counts as food.

In my head, I’m calculating if I’ve eaten enough to qualify as a full meal by any standard. Spoiler: I haven’t. The thought crosses my mind that anyone normal would find this dining experience utterly ridiculous. Twelve courses, and I’m still fantasizing about a late-night burger run.

I scowl, realizing a late-night burger run is off the table. I’m trapped here; no two ways about it. I did all this, walked straight into danger, now putting Ser and her family in danger because of me.

Sitting here, surrounded by the Morozov Bratva clan, I never thought I’d be breaking bread—or tiny, artistic twelve-course meals—with gangsters.

Ser would’ve penned an entire novel by now, something about a vampire preparing for a wedding feast where the bride unknowingly stars as the main dish.

Thinking about Ser squeezes my heart tight, sparking a silent wish to see her again.

I let out a covert sigh, messing with the cutlery like it’s a puzzle.

I feel them around me; the table’s under a spotlight of glares, especially from the far end where a brunette and a dark-haired woman sit, their thick makeup hiding any genuine emotion. The weight of their stares makes my skin prickle.

They catch my eye, whispering something to each other before erupting into fake laughter.

“Yeah, thrilled to be here too, ladies,” I silently jeer. Victor skips the introductions, diving straight into the meal like it’s just another Sunday brunch.

But then, what’s the point? We’re only pretending. I’m not his real bride-to-be.

I dodge the icy stares with a swift glance, my eyes quickly shifting away from the mean girls.

Among them, a man catches my attention—quiet, his gaze fixed ahead, not with the chill of a hitman, but with a blend of sorrow and strength.

I take a nervous sip of water and follow his gaze to the head of the table, to Andrey Morozov himself. He’s talking to Victor, both of them holding themselves like they own the world.

Clearly, Victor inherited his stunning looks from his father.

Despite his years, Andrey exudes an air of command that’s hard to ignore, his suit crisp, his bearing one of innate leadership. His whole vibe screams “battle-hardened,” but it’s the unexpected softness in his eyes tonight that throws me.

My eyes wander, settling on Victor. He’s undeniably handsome, features cut sharp and unmistakably masculine.

Holy smokes! Is that jawline chiseled out of marble, or what? Looks like it could cut glass.

The way it clenches when he’s focused. Heat crawls up my cheeks, uninvited.

Then, abruptly, he turns, our eyes lock, and I’m caught.

Fuck, fuck, shit.

Panic flutters in my chest, and I blink rapidly, turning away as my fingers find refuge in twisting a lock of my hair

Thank God Eli’s excitement rescues me from being busted for ogling Victor. “Look at this, Laura!” Her wonder’s infectious. Her eyes light up like it’s Christmas, almost bouncing in her seat. “Wow, they’re so pretty!” she bursts out when the server places the plate before her.

I lean toward her, forcing a smile. “They really are, aren’t they?”

It’s the least I can do, giving her a moment in this madness. My mind’s racing, still struggling to make sense of it all.

As I lift my gaze, it clashes with Ksenia’s. That dead stare of hers hits me again before she shifts her attention to the young man sitting opposite her.

He’s striking, resembling a model straight off a runway with his sad, dark gray eyes. He acknowledges Ksenia with a subtle nod, then immerses himself back in his phone.

Seriously, is there a factory churning out these ridiculously handsome men around here?

I can’t help but wonder about his identity, noticing he carries the same frosty aura as Ksenia.

Seriously? Luar?

This is not the right time or place for eyeing men like I’m flipping through a catalog. Did I not remember that in just three days, I’m about to tie the knot with a Russian mafia boss?

And Dad… How on Earth do I break this to him, or to anybody, for that matter?

I find my fingers nervously playing with the fork, aimlessly tracing the outlines of a tiny, leftover flower garnish from the last course, almost like I’m trying to dissect its secrets.

“Ma’am,” a server gently cuts through my daze, skillfully sliding a new plate in front of me while whisking the old one away. “Your dessert,” he announces.

“Thanks,” I grunt to the server as he sets down what’s supposed to be the grand finale of a meal.

My eyes can’t help but flick over to Victor. He’s dabbing his mouth with a napkin. He has his sleeves rolled up to his forearms; those ridiculous, stupid large arms with veins standing out as if carved from stone, annoyingly, turn on a feeling I can’t shake.

My throat suddenly feels dry, and without thinking, I swallow hard, trying to ease the tightness between my legs. My body is reacting without my control.

Okay, it’s clear now—I’ve totally lost it. How am I getting these… these tingles from a guy who’s practically kidnapped and forced me into a marriage I never asked for?

A hushed sigh slips out as I tackle the miniature dessert with a fork that feels like it’s made for ants.

I nudge that tiny dessert into my mouth, and— Holymotherofgod, my tongue just had an orgasm!

“Mmmm…” I groan, licking my lips to savor the lingering taste of tiramisu. One bite, and it’s all gone.

“That was a quick trip to heaven,” I murmur, sliding the fork out of my mouth.

I raise my eyes, and there he is, watching.

His stare travels from my lips up to my eyes. Hard, deep, and like a predator.

A sultry heat weaves through my bloodstream. I’m melting quicker than ice cream on a hot day.

Damnit, Laur, get it together.

I break his stare. “Ex-excuse me, restroom … break,” I manage to stammer out as I push my chair back. My body is on fire, and all I can think about is getting away from him.

“Let me walk you there,” Victor says, standing tall, quieting the entire room.

“I can find it myself,” I whisper back, attempting to maintain some distance between us. But who am I kidding? Victor is going to get what he wants.

Without hesitation, he extends his hand, and I know it’s not a request. It’s a demand.

Looking up at his big, strong body, my face flushes hot, and my heart does a little tap dance. A sudden wave of desire hits me like a fiery burrito from last night’s Taco Tuesday.

Goddamnit, Laur.

Cursing under my breath, I clench my jaw as I refuse to hand over my hand. But he just smirks and challenges me with a look. “You’ll get lost on your own,” he teases.

Before I can object again, I’m stopped short. “Eh-hmm,” an awkward interruption from Andrey Morozov makes me shift my gaze, my lips pressing together tightly. The Morozovs’ eyes are on us, silent and assessing, except for Eli, whose yawn breaks the tension momentarily. I divert my gaze, feeling out of place.

I bite my lip down, my eyes flicking elsewhere, knowing I’d really rather be anywhere but here. With a reluctant sigh, I give in, placing my hand in his. His grip is surprisingly comforting, a solid presence amidst my inner chaos.

Yet, the moment is fleeting. Victor’s hand encases mine, a smirk touching his lips as he whispers close, “There’s my good girl.”

“I’m nobody’s ‘good girl,’” I retort softly.

“Excuse us,” Victor announces to the room, leading me away with a confidence that draws every eye.

I hear my heels gently clicking onto the marble floor as Victor leads me out of the dining hall, our bodies brushing against each other with every step. I can feel the tension and desire building.

But I know better than to give in. This may be just another one of Victor’s manipulative tactics, using me to appear even more powerful and desirable.

Jerk.

I let him lead me toward a corridor, its walls mirrored from end to end. Catching our reflection, I barely recognize myself beside him. The old Laura, in casual wear and untamed hair, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there stands a woman who looks like she has it all together—poised, polished, and paired with a man who could be straight out of a magazine.

For a second, the image captivates me.

For a second, I look like someone with a perfect life.

I clench my jaw, reminding myself.

This isn’t my life. It never will be.

No matter how tempting the illusion may be.