Stealing The Bratva Bride Read Online Flora Ferrari

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
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But I’m not a girl anymore. I’m an educated woman, and I see now that Niko is just a pawn in a game, like I am. Plus, he doesn’t have a single original thought in his head. He’s absolutely willing to do whatever his father says, and will be handed over his family’s business one day without having to lift a finger. Niko has nothing to offer to the world and definitely nothing to offer me.

And I’ve seen the kind of men these boys become. They are entitled and cruel. If he’s anything like his father, he’ll treat me horribly and speak badly of me when I’m not around him. I’ll be expected to dote on him hand and foot, and in return, I’ll be treated like his maid. That isn’t who I want to be.

Beyond that, I was supposed to have more time than this. I was supposed to get to finish college. I’m only twenty, for Christ’s sake. No part of me wants to spend the rest of my life with Niko. I was supposed to have more time. Something inspired Papa to collect on my promise early. I resent it with my whole heart. I wish I knew why it was so important for me to marry Niko right now.

Whatever the reason, it’s choking me. I want to run from everything and take back my promise. There’s nowhere to go, though. The church is no doubt packed with friends of the family. I can’t just run out there and let them see me. Let Papa see me. I can already picture the vein in his head popping out. His face will be so red. Running away isn’t an option, I just need a minute to think. To breathe.

After all, I did agree to this. For better or for worse. I didn’t know what I was agreeing to at the time, but I can’t break my promise. Papa always says we are only as good as our word. If I can collect myself, I can plaster the mask back on and do what’s expected of me. I’ll walk down the aisle and marry Niko and live the rest of my life in misery.

The air in my lungs burns and I feel like I’m going to throw up. My bare feet slap against the stone floor, echoing with every step. I must look like a madwoman, but I don’t care. I need to find somewhere I can hide for a few minutes.

I turn down a corridor and see the open door of a small bathroom. It’s perfect. It’s away from the bridal suite, away from the crowd, and no one will bother me in here. This is a large church. They’ll be searching for a long time before they think to come back here. I slam the door shut and lock it before grabbing the sink and heaving into it.

The porcelain feels good against my hot hands. I turn on the sink, relaxing against the sound of the flowing water. If only I could hide behind the waterfall of the faucet. I grab a paper towel and soak it in the cold water, then press the damp towel against my chest. The skin there is hot, burning. My whole body is on fire.

I can’t cry. Mother will kill me if I mess up the makeup that’s taken hours. I look up at my reflection and see that my cheeks are flushed, as hot as my chest. The glamorous, expensive makeup job is still perfectly intact, though. Not even a single eyelash has come out of place. My hair is curled flawlessly with tendrils running down my face.

I look stunning, though even pricey makeup can’t mask the panic in my eyes. On the outside, I’m everything a bride should be, minus the curves. I’m beautiful and adorned with all the finest clothing and jewels. But on the inside, there’s a hurricane brewing. It threatens to break free and destroy everything in its wake. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I fear the sound will get absorbed into the old stone walls and no one will be able to hear me.

As I stare at myself, trying to calm my breathing, I hear a strange clanking noise. I look down to see that something has slid under the door. It’s a thin, metal flask. What the hell?

“You should try this,” a deep voice says through the door. “It’s good for nerves.”

It’s not a voice I immediately recognize. Whoever this man is, he’s either a friend or associate of my father’s. He isn’t a friend to me in any way. And yet…

I grab the flask and twist the top off, gulping down the liquid inside as if it’s water. It is very much not water, nor is it the vodka I was expecting. Russian men always have flasks full of vodka. I sputter against the burning in my throat and try to breathe through my nose. I cough up some of the liquid and see that it’s brown. Scotch? Bourbon?



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