Sanctum: A Dark Bratva Arranged Marriage Romance (Wicked Vows)

THE SUN SHINES BRIGHTLY on the crowd of guests, stark in winter without the shade of leaves. I lift my hand to shade my eyes and scan the crowd.

Ever vigilant. Ever watchful. Other than the handful of my family members, I don’t really and truly ever trust anyone. Someone could be here ready to kill. We all know that being engaged to a Romanov is a death sentence. Mikhail’s lineup of fiancées could attest to that…if they were still alive.

Something isn’t right. I scan the crowd over and over again, looking for a clue, but unlike reading a computer screen, reading a throng of people isn’t as cut and dried.

The sun feels too bright, the brisk wind too cold.

Strains of music begin to play, a Russian classic I can’t quite identify. Everything seems a bit hazy and disoriented. I’m hyper-focused on a threat in our midst.

“Aleks.” I look to my right to see Nikko, dressed in all black. Why is he dressed in all black? It’s a wedding, not a funeral.

Is there a difference in my family?

“Someone’s gotten past our guards. There’s been a breach in security.” He continues telling me details, but my brain is buzzing with the first words he said.

We have to warn the girls. Polina and Aria are with Harper. We have to get to them.

I’m walking down the aisle, the eyes of our guests following me when I see her — Harper. Dressed in dreamy white, a veil covering her face. I have to get to her. I have to protect her. Someone’s here with the intent to destroy my family, and she’s practically got a bullseye on her.

I open my mouth to tell her to go back for cover when someone screams behind me. Deafening gunshots ring out. I reach for my gun when I hear another scream. I can’t find the shooter. I can’t find who’s the enemy.

I’ve been here once before, unable to protect the people I love, as helpless as a child.

“Aleks! Aleks!” Polina’s shrill voice, on the edge of hysteria, brings my gaze swiveling back to hers.

No.

No!

Crimson blood against white fabric. Harper’s doubled over, clutching at herself as if she could staunch the blood with her own bare hands. Blood flows and flows, over the lace and pearls, staining the ground, staining her shoes, staining my own hands when I finally get to her.

No.

I cradle her to my chest, the memory of doing this very thing in a past life as vivid as the pain. I failed. I failed to protect her.

I wake from my dream, my heart pounding. I sit up in bed and stare. I can still feel the sticky warmth of her blood on my hands. Still smell the metallic stench of blood. Still feel the heavy weight of the knowledge that I failed again.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I have to move.

The faintest tinge of light outside the window tells me it’s not quite dawn.

I close my eyes.

It was a dream. Only a dream.

It’s my wedding day, and it was only a dream.

No one’s screaming or crying. It’s blissfully quiet. Peaceful, even.

I step out of bed and stretch, welcoming the pain in my legs and arms from yesterday’s ball-busting workout. I school my emotions at the gym and today will be no exception.

I walk to the window and half expect to see white folding chairs stained with my bride’s blood.

There’s nothing but frosted grass, though. We’re not even having any guests outside. The wedding will be inside.

And that was only a dream.

Then why does my heart still race as if it actually happened?

It did once. Years ago. Another time and another place, but it happened once before.

I walk to the bathroom on autopilot and splash water on my face. Stare at my reflection, half expecting to see sunken eyes and pallid skin like I did for months following her death.

But sometimes images don’t match reality. I look too fucking healthy for what goes on in my mind.

A fist pounds on the door. It isn’t a knock, but a slam. Nikko probably.

“Come in,” I yell over my shoulder.

“Jesus, you could tell me you’re taking a piss,” he says with disgust.

“I just woke up, asshole. What do you need?” I lift the hand I’m not using and flip him off.

“You think I only come to see you when I need something?”

“No,” I say with dripping sarcasm. “You came in here to wish me well on my wedding day. Give me some brotherly advice.” I finish my business, flush, and wash my hands. I look at his reflection in the mirror. “Give me a warm hug?”

“Okay, now you’re taking shit too far. Jesus,” Nikko mutters. “First, happy wedding day.”

“Yeah, thanks. All look clear?”

“Crystal clear. Too clear. We’ve got every goddamn one of us on high alert, and nothing’s out of place. Doesn’t make sense unless they learned their lesson already and know better than to cross us.”

I shrug, looking casual, so I don’t betray the staccato rhythm of my heartbeat.

They call Mikhail the Siberian Tiger. Viktor the Iron Fist. Nikko the Steel Serpent.

You could say we have a reputation.

“We don’t let our guard down for a second,” I tell him, putting toothpaste on a toothbrush. “You want to hit the weights with me?”

He scowls and wrinkles his nose. “Fuck no. Think I have a death wish?”

He lifts with Viktor but doesn’t like the early morning ass-kicking routine.

“Fine, be a pussy then. You gonna tell me what you need or what?”

He gives me a sheepish grin. “Well, now that I’m here…”

I roll my eyes and spit out the toothpaste.

“So, uh… got a small issue with some footage that might not look too good for us. Can you clean it up? Make it look like we were never there?’

I narrow my eyes at him. “Mikhail know?”

“Fuck no, but it’s nothing big. Just keep it between us.”

I snort. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, man.”

I need to see Harper.

I just want to prove to myself that it was only a dream.

I need to see her now. When I close my eyes, I can still see her wrapped in a blood-soaked wedding dress. I need to purge that image from my mind.

Nikko takes off and I walk to the guest room where she’s staying. We Russians have our traditions and so do the Italians. The idea of an Italian princess sharing a bed with her future husband is scandalous. I don’t usually care about shit like that, but I hold to traditions. Simplifies shit.

There’s a faint clink of dishes in the kitchen, staff preparing for the day ahead, but other than that the house is still cloaked in the pre-dawn quiet. My steps are noiseless as I walk to her room. The guards I have stationed outside her door scatter to the side when I glare at them to move.

I pause outside the door and listen for a sound.

I knock. No response.

I knock again. Nothing.

I can’t hear…anything. No rustling of sheets. I can’t even hear her breathing. Panic swoops over me and my vision blurs.

I quickly unlock the door and shove it open, rush in and find — her sleeping peacefully in bed.

I feel like I shouldn’t be here. It’s my home and she’ll be my wife, but without her sassy sparring it feels like she’s as vulnerable as a small child.

Blood-soaked satin and vacant eyes.

I shake my head and will the nightmare to be purged from my goddamn brain.

I shut the door and feel my entire body slump in relief. I’m mad at myself for getting so worked up, for letting stupid dreams rob me of my peace. If I feel this way about harm coming to her now, how will I ever survive if I develop feelings for her? I can’t let myself fall for her. It’s too damn dangerous.

I stand beside her and watch her. Her hands are folded under her cheek, her honey-blonde hair askew on her pillow. The blankets and sheets are wrapped around her body.

The early morning hours, before dawn turns into day, somehow feel intimate and sacred. Outside the window, the soft glow of moonlight is nature’s nightlight, a full moon casting shadows that dance across the walls and the form of the sleeping beauty. Even the muted sounds of the waning night outside her window feel weighted and sensual.

I move closer to her. She doesn’t move.

I shake her shoulder then step back. “Wake up, Harper.”

She startles awake and quickly pulls the covers up higher. She seems confused for a moment, as if trying to decipher reality from dreams.

Makes two of us.

“What are you doing in here?”

“You shouldn’t be sleeping so hard. What if I was a predator?” I’m angry she let me get this close without realizing I was here.

Narrowing her eyes at me, she pushes right back. Her voice is still raspy with sleep. “If you made it this far as a predator, I’d say your security team’s shit and you need to hire better security.”

She has a point.

My heartbeat slows. The warmth that rose in my chest begins to dissipate.

We stare at each other in silence. Her gaze roams down the length of my body. I’m still wearing the boxers I slept in and nothing else. She licks her lips and tucks the covers around herself more tightly.

“What are you wearing?” My voice is husky. Affected. My breathing shallows.This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

It’s quiet in here but I can still hardly hear her voice. “Aleks.”

“You’ll be my wife in a matter of hours. I want to know what you’re wearing.”

The air between us feels charged, thick with the weight of unexpected desire and our impending vows.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, her gaze holding mine as she slowly relaxes her grip on her blankets. “Just a little set of pjs.”

Just a little set indeed. I bet it barely covers her nipples and ass.

I can’t wait to see what she looks like pinned beneath the weight of my body. Her mouth parted or, better yet — filled with my cock.

I can’t wait to see her eyes go soft and her body meld to mine when she comes.

I can’t wait to see her on her knees. Wearing nothing but my wedding ring.

I may not love this woman, but I’ll enjoy every fucking possible second with her tight little body. Schooling those pouty little lips. Making her beg.

“What did you want, Aleks?” Her voice is still barely above a whisper. A flicker of panic flits across her gaze when I draw near.

I don’t know what I want. We’re too close, the room too intimate as the sky begins to faintly glow.

“Show me.”

The panic spreads across her face, as if she’s on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

“Show you what?” she asks in a strangled voice.

“Show me what you’re wearing. Or better yet, what you’re not.”

God, I’m an asshole. I know she’s supposed to remain untouched. I know I’m not supposed to see her, even fully clothed, right now, much less dressed in almost nothing. But I want to see her. I want to take a closer look, when it’s just the two of us.

For some reason, I want to tell her she’s safe, that she can trust me. I’m torn between the need to make her understand who I am and the need to make sure she knows I’m not going to hurt her.

I will, though. It’s inevitable.

She hesitates for long seconds then finally, with a trembling hand, begins to push the bedclothes down.

“Just some pjs your sister brought me.” She’s rallied, delivering those words in that sassy-as-fuck tone of voice.

“Show me,” I repeat. My words are a barely civilized half growl.

With a flourish, she tosses the blankets aside.

“Fuccck.”

She’s wearing nothing but a tiny pair of satin white pj shorts with a little, pale-pink bow centered at her navel, and a dainty, short-sleeved tee that covers her but barely, clinging to her curves like sin.

“Look,” she says in a voice that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing. “It even says Bride across the ass. Just in case you forget who I am and need a label.”

I’ve had it with the sassy little brat. “Oh yeah? Let’s see.”

She tips to the side and flashes her ass at me, just in time for me to slap my palm against it. I relish the satisfying tingle in my palm.

“Ow!” she squeals, flipping back over to her back. “Hey!”

I lean onto the bed on the palm of my hand just as she flops down, effectively pinning her in. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are parted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the swat to the ass turned her on.

Fucccck yes.

Oh, I’ll have fun with that.

Starting right now.

I cage her in beneath me. “You know we have rules here for wives and husbands, don’t you? Do you know what they are?”

Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Let’s see. First, a wife must secure permission from her lord and master — um, I mean husband, Your Royal Highness — before engaging in the act of breathing, most especially too loudly. Second. Under the sacred vows of wedlock, no wife shall ever possess more opinions than her all-knowing husband. She must never outshine her husband in any way.”

“Your accuracy is astounding. It’s like you were raised in the mafia.” I lean forward and trace the little spaghetti strap on her shoulder. She shivers but pretends it doesn’t affect her.

Christ, she’s gorgeous. Her eyes are bright and warm, her skin clear and vibrant with a slight flush to her cheeks. Silky, gently tousled waves of honey brown hair softly frame her face. She’s got a girl-next-door, Italian-girlfriend appeal I fucking love.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d describe her as… joyful. Friendly, even. Approachable.

In other words, she’s my exact opposite in every way.

“Go on.”

“Third,” she continues, as if she’s just warming up. “The husband reigns supreme. The wife must conduct all business and socialization with the express written approval of her lord and master. She must never hold a contrary opinion to her husband, due to his fragile ego and precarious grip on the patriarchy. She must—she must⁠—”

Her voice falters when I slip the spaghetti strap off her shoulder. Jesus, I can’t hold myself back anymore. I want to see her perfect breasts, the way her nipples pebble when I drag my tongue across them. I want to taste her, savor her, consume her.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

I slip the second strap off and give the top a little tug. It falls just below her nipples. A swirl of arousal licks at me.

“A wife must — must — never be contrary to her husband. She must never quest-question him in an-any way.” She falters as I bend and lick the tip of each perfect, dusky nipple. My boxers tighten against my raging erection just as the first glint of daylight appears outside the window. “A wife must o-obey like a humble servant. Should a wife exercise free will, or commit the unforgivable sin of independent thinking, she will cause her husband to be exceedingly disappointed.”

She’s a clever one. I’m curious how she’ll hold onto that vocabulary and wit when I lick her pussy.

I pull her nipple between my teeth and pinch the other. Her back arches and her lips part.

“Go on, Harper. Stop now and I’ll have to punish you. You don’t want that, do you?”

A sassy glint in her eye tells me she’s willing to give it a go.

Game on.

“An obedient wife wears wh-what her husband chooses,” she continues.

“Or nothing at all,” I correct, framing her sweet, perfect body between my hands and kissing my way down her breasts to her navel. She stifles a whimper.

“A wife should defer to her husband’s superior judgment,” she says, her eyes half-lidded now. “Since he has the benefit of patriarchal clairvoyance.”

“Always.”

I make it to the little bow and plant a kiss right. There. “Now let’s talk about what happens when a wife doesn’t obey her husband, how she’s subject to his extreme disappointment and firm correction. Aren’t you, Princess?”

She lets out a little squeal when I palm the word Bride across her ass. “But if you behave, I’ll show you a world of rewards and pleasure.”

I kiss the sweet vee between her legs and inhale the seductive scent of her arousal.

“Aleks,” she whispers, her voice a tremulous whisper.

“Shouldn’t that be My Lord?”

Her wrists are in my hand, her body teeming with need when I stand. I want her so fucking badly.

“Polina will be here soon to help you get ready, and I have zero interest in my sister seeing me in boxers with a raging hard-on. I’m told the preparations are an all-day affair.”

She nods and bites her lip. “Yes.”

“I won’t see you until we take our vows, then.” I release her wrists to lean in and kiss her cheek. “Promise me you’ll behave.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll be watching you.”

The sun breaks through the clouds over the horizon. The glimmer of sunrise looks like hope outside the window. Holding my gaze, she smiles. “I’ll count on it.”