Seduction: A Dark Bratva Fake Marriage Romance (Wicked Vows)

I knew what I had to do, and I was prepared.

I watched every single goddamn thing Vera Ivanova did over the past few days. I watched her online history and tracked her phone. Listened in on her conversations. Perused her bank account to see where she spent her money. I even know her astrological sign and the way she takes her coffee.

But no amount of sleuthing, spying, or stalking prepared me for meeting her in person.

I knew she was beautiful. She took my breath away the first time I saw her picture. In person…I can hardly look away.

I have to.

Her clothes are suitable for a long flight—black yoga pants that hug every perfect curve and a pale green long-sleeved tee that makes her eyes pop. So unassuming. So completely mesmerizing.

But it’s obvious the second I’m in her presence that there’s more to Vera than meets the eye. Despite her slender, petite frame, there’s a quiet strength in her posture and movements. A decided elegance in the way she holds herself and the way she speaks. She’s grace personified.

From what I’ve read about her, this woman’s fucking brilliant, too, having been accepted into one of the most prestigious grad programs in Europe. The combination of mischief and challenge, grace and intelligence, would outdo a man with lesser self-control than I have. But I’ve learned how to govern my emotions.

I have to remain aloof. Detached. I shield myself in public and always have, and for that, I’m grateful because I’ve never needed it more.

Vera gives me a curious look. “Have you ever flown before?” I can’t quite decipher the look she’s giving me, but to keep up the charade, I only shrug.

She and the driver share a look. Good, my plan worked. I managed to communicate to him that I didn’t speak English, and in the short time it took me to load her bags in the car, he must’ve told her.

I watch as she makes a little finger motion like an airplane flying and give her another shrug as if I still have no idea what she’s saying, because her attempts at communicating are sort of cute. I flick my fingers in the air, and she says more clearly and louder this time, “Plane. You?”

I shrug and nod. Yes, I’ve flown before, many times.

I point my finger at her and make a flying motion.

She sits up straighter and shakes her head. “Uh, no. I’ve never been on a plane.”

Shit. Seriously? Her first flight from New York to Moscow will be about ten hours long.

Great. Will she be afraid? Does she know anything about airport protocol? I noticed when she got in the car that her eyes were a bit misty and red-rimmed. Is she afraid of flying, or is there another reason she looks like she was crying?

Doesn’t matter, though. My goal is to infiltrate her family’s security and get to her father. Vera is just a means to an end.

“I brought some books to read,” she says quietly, drumming her fingers on her knees. It’s almost like she’s talking to herself rather than me, which makes sense since she thinks I don’t speak her language. She chooses her words thoughtfully, but I can tell she’s more anxious than she’s letting on.

Body language conveys more than people know. I note the way she doesn’t look at me when she talks. The way her gaze is fixed out the window and her foot taps.

The slight fluttering of her fingertips at her collarbone signifies more than nerves, though.

Has she ever been in close proximity to a man like me before? How sheltered has she been?

She continues, her voice a bit wobbly. “I have some puzzle books. My phone, of course, but my eyes get tired looking at screens after studying, and I’m so over looking at my phone. I hope there’s WiFi. Maybe I’ll nap, but I don’t like the idea of napping in public because I’ll let my guard down, and I—” She gives me a sidelong glance. “Huh. I suppose no one will give me a difficult time if I’m sitting anywhere near you. Maybe I will nap.”

I’m glad she doesn’t think I speak English because I would assure her she’d be absolutely fine to sleep next to me. I’d promise her utter safety and protection, but I can’t risk getting too close to her.

“My mother was so overprotective,” she explains. “I’m kind of glad we don’t speak the same language because that means I can say things maybe I normally wouldn’t.”

The driver looks at her in the mirror.

“Maybe he’s lying.”

I stare straight ahead and pretend I didn’t hear a thing. Asshole should mind his own business. I don’t even have the benefit of being able to give him a dirty look, or I could give myself away.

“You think he’s lying?” She gives the driver a quizzical look. “Interesting.”

“I didn’t say he was. Just saying it’s a possibility.”

I pretend I don’t feel the laser-sharp focus of her assessing gaze.

“Well, then,” Vera says, leaning closer to me. She lowers her voice so the driver can’t hear her. “What if I were to say things that would make him blush? If he didn’t speak English, he wouldn’t react, would he?”

What the fuck is she doing?

I give her a dismissive look like she’s an annoying little sister who needs to go away, then pull out my phone and pretend to scroll.

“So,” she says in a whisper as she casually picks at her cuticles. “I don’t like to sleep with pajamas on. Just saying.”

Jesus.

I stare at my phone and don’t look at her. I barely move.

“I don’t like the feel of clothes between me and the blankets,” she continues in a whisper. “I wonder if you do.”

When I don’t respond, she heaves a big sigh.

Maybe Vera Ivanova isn’t as innocent as she looks. Appearances can be deceiving.

With a sigh, she talks to the driver again. “I think you’re wrong. I think it’s actually true.” She lowers her voice. “Either that or I don’t have the effect on him I’d hoped for.”

Oh, but she does.

“Alright, bodyguard,” she says again in her plain, straightforward voice. “I’ve told you one of my biggest secrets. Now I’m going to tell you one more because you don’t have a clue what I’m saying.”

I keep my eyes stoically on my phone as I flip through various notifications. I cast a mildly curious glance at her.

“No one knows I read all the Bourne books. And I have a major, huge crush on Jason Bourne.” She leans in. “And you look just like him. Like just. Like. Him.”

Interesting. Jason Bourne was an assassin and she has a major crush on him.

But it’s so tempting to respond. So tempting.

Don’t react. Don’t react.

I slide my phone into my pocket and look straight ahead while Vera pulls out her phone with a sigh. She puts headphones in and mouths something to herself. I could check to see what she’s doing on the screen mirroring app I have, but she’s sitting right next to me. I don’t want to take risks.

My most important job right now is to get her on that plane. Once we’re in the air, the chances of me being discovered lessen.

The second most important job is to engage with the Ivanov Bratva and make them believe I am who I say I am.

I check the driver’s GPS on the dash and see we’re only two minutes out. I need to prepare.

Most people think airports are adventurous, unless they travel a lot for work, in which case they might find them tiresome and tedious. Some of us, however, know them for what they truly are—dangerous hot zones for criminals, enemies, and anyone you don’t trust. Fugitives escape under false identities, people are robbed and kidnapped. I trust no one, especially at an airport.

It’s late at night when we pull into the drop-off area. I haven’t flown with normal civilians in years. Her father’s an asshole for allowing it. If my sister Polina went on a trip to Moscow, not only would she have a team of bodyguards with her, they’d be in constant contact with us and she’d fly privately. I never understood why some Bratva don’t take care of their women.

But that’s none of my business. She’s nothing to me.

I exit the car and go to Vera’s door to open it for her. I may not be her real bodyguard, but I’ll play the part. She’s young and innocent. Beautiful and vulnerable. She needs a bodyguard, and goddamn if I’ll let anyone hurt her.

I won’t think of what I have to do.

When I open the door for her, she looks up at me with her wide, intelligent eyes.

“Spasibo,” she says with a smug little smile. Thank you.

Ah. So that’s what she was doing on her phone. Studying Russian.

I can’t help but smile at her and nod. “Pozhaluysta.”

You’re welcome.

The driver looks at both of us, tapping his steering wheel, but doesn’t make a move to get our bags. Asshole. I tap the trunk of the car for him to open it so I can get our bags and look in surprise when Vera reaches for one. I don’t think so. My mother raised me better than that, and I’ll be damned if she carries her bags on my watch. I give her a silent shake of my head and a stern look. “Nyet.”

When she huffs at me and reaches for the heavy bag to outright defy me, I make my decision. I turn to her and pick her up, hands under her armpits, before I deposit her on the sidewalk. When she flails and lets go of the bag, I take them and point to her little purse. There. You can take that.

“I’m a modern woman, you know,” she says with a little huff, but the slight flush to her cheeks tells me she’s a little flustered by being manhandled. Is she, now?

I’m arranging all our bags on a cart to take them inside when she tries to march away from me. Apparently, her little Russian tutorial failed to teach her the Russian way of telling me to fuck off, which makes it a lot easier for me to ignore her.

Instinctively, I grab the cart handle in my left hand and reach for her with my right. My fingers tighten on her slender arm, not too hard to hurt but enough to stop her.

“Let go of me!”

I don’t bother to try to communicate but snap at her in Russian. “Ne uhodi ot menya v aeroportu!”

Do not walk away from me in an airport.

Jesus, what is she thinking?

Of course she doesn’t understand a word I say, so I only keep my grip on her arm and repeat what I said.

“I’m just getting one of those things for the luggage,” she says, pointing about twenty feet away to a stack of trolleys. I scoff and shake my head and get one myself.

“Well, this is gonna be fun,” she mutters under her breath. “An overprotective bodyguard I can’t talk to?”

What kind of bodyguards has she had?

We stalk in tense silence to check-in, where I plunk our bags down beside the kiosk and glare at her.

“Fine!” she snaps. “I won’t pick up the bags, okay?”

Guess I communicated that clearly enough. Good. She’s damn lucky she isn’t mine with an attitude like that.

I shake my head and scan our boarding passes. I notice her stiffen beside me.

“Um. You cannot take that on a plane,” she whispers.

I look up in surprise to see she’s looking at my back. The gun I’m carrying is secured in the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.

I shrug. She leans in closer to me, laying her hand on my back.

Christ.

My skin heats at how near she is, a flare of warmth from her touch, and the faint, lingering smell of warmed toffee and spice surrounds me. Her mouth gets near to my ear, and she tries again, repeating herself. “You can’t take a gun on a plane.” She presses it into my back to emphasize her point.

Oh yeah? Watch me. I only smile at her and shake my head. It’ll be fine.

At security, I head immediately to the security guard Aleks told me to go to. I’ve been in touch with the Ivanov security team but they’ve given me minimal instructions. Why am I not surprised?

The security guard smiles at me when I turn my arm over and show him the tattoo that marks me as Bratva.

“Hello, sir. This way, please.” Behind closed doors, I discreetly hand him the cash we agreed on, and he swiftly moves us aside and down a VIP aisle to get past security to get to our gate.

“You did not just do that,” she says, shaking her head. “Jesus, I wish you’d speak English. I’d tell you that was, like. . .” Her voice trails off when she realizes I’m not responding. “Hot,” she says to herself. “No, on second thought, I wouldn’t tell you that.”

An interesting observation.

We’re early for our flight but comfortable in a VIP lounge we’ve secured beforehand.

“Okay, so this is nice,” she says as she walks to a snack station with complimentary drinks and snacks. She points to the food and then her belly. “I’m starving. You?”

I have no idea how long it’ll be before we eat again, and I have no intention of sleeping on that plane, so I join her. We feast on sandwiches, chips, and fruit, and when she helps herself to a cookie, I decline.

“Watching those macros, huh? Of course you are. You can’t be built like that and eat carbs all day long.” She sighs. “I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about macros.”

She isn’t wrong. I don’t eat that shit.

I keep my face deliberately impassive, but she’s quirky and kind of cute, so it’s getting harder to do.

“Macro shmacro,” she says, happily munching on a second cookie. “I’ll happily sleep, seduced into a sugar coma.”

I pretend to busy myself on my phone, but I’m checking the mirroring app on hers. I have no idea how anyone can function with twenty apps open at a time, but she’s moving from one thing to the next seamlessly – Russian translating app, a website with “must-know Russian phrases,” a little jewel matching game, and an app for reading. Interesting. I have to work extra hard to school my expression when I see the titles. I’d call it. . . eclectic and telling. What can you learn by the titles someone reads?

The Future of Medical Biometrics

Beauty and the Bodyguard

Mastering His Lady

“Ladies and gentlemen, flight 5834 for Russia is preparing to board in twenty minutes. Please make any necessary last-minute purchases or trips to the restroom. We will begin shortly with priority seating.”

Vera stands and points to a restroom. “I need to use the bathroom before we go, okay?”

When I nod and stand with her, her eyes widen in horror, but I only shake my head and point to the floor outside the restroom. I am not going into the restroom with her.

I will, however, be vigilant to ensure no one’s waiting to hurt her or is ready to rob her and watch every exit and entrance.

I read through the list of profiles of the other passengers, as well as the flight attendants. Nothing seems out of place. Maybe she doesn’t have a target on her back like others do. Maybe Ivanov’s lack of interest in her paid off. Or maybe I just haven’t seen anything yet.

The burner phone in my back pocket vibrates with a text. It belongs to Markov Pashnik, whose body lies, weighted, at the bottom of the East River by now.

Markov was less than inspired when he created his contact list.

I respond with one word:

Nothing else. Someone’s checking off a box to make sure she’s here but doesn’t give a shit beyond that.

Works for me.

I pull out my own phone while she’s in there and quickly shoot a message to Aleks.

I slide my phone into my pocket just as she exits and we leave to board.

“I should have had a stiff drink,” she says, her voice shaking. I stare straight ahead and pretend I don’t notice the way her slim shoulders tremble.

Vera takes a step closer to me.

I can tell she’s trying to keep herself calm with deep breaths, as she squares her shoulders and looks straight ahead. We have our carry-on bags with us, but she insisted we take the one that feels like it’s loaded with bricks on board. I carry that one and walk behind her as we board.

I am definitely not used to the size of these seats. Whoever booked these tickets was only considering her and not a potential add-on. I hardly fit. Again, I mentally curse her asshole father for shortchanging her. She should be flying business class, in the lap of luxury, not crammed next to me in coach on a ten-hour flight.

“Wow,” she says in a whisper. “Uh, tight quarters.”

She looks over at me and shakes her head.

“Markov, that can’t be comfortable for you.”

No matter how hard I try, half my body is practically in her seat. I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, and shake my head at her. I have a job, and I’m going to do it.

Once we get to Moscow, I’ll have access to her father’s whereabouts as well as his inner circle of acquaintances. But for now, I have one job to do, and I aim to do it well.

An hour in, and my muscles ache from holding myself away from her. I adjust to no avail, and a toddler sitting in front of us with his mother begins to wail.

I know the feeling, buddy.

“Oh, poor thing,” Vera says. “Probably his ears.”

The mother tries all manner of things with him, but the little guy can’t be soothed. I stifle a grumble. If I have to keep myself stuffed into this little seat and listen to a screaming kid for nine more hours. . .

Vera looks through the hole between the two seats and tickles the little boy’s foot. He stops. I give her a sharp look. It isn’t the safest method, instigating contact with strangers, but she doesn’t seem to give a shit. Excellent.

I sit up straight and try to ignore the little guy who’s now avidly poking little things through the gap between the seats.

“I don’t like flying either,” she whispers to him. “I’m scared. Are you scared?”

He looks through the hole from me to her, then back to me. “Scared,” he whispers. With wide brown eyes and curly blond hair, he looks about my niece Ivy’s age, three or four. The little guy’s cheeks are red from crying. His mother smiles at Vera as she talks to him.

“The man next to me, he’s my friend but he scares me, too. I mean, look at him.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

The boy stares at me, and his lower lip trembles. Shit.

“Oh no!” Vera says, quickly backtracking. “I just meant he looks scary. He’s quite nice! You don’t need to be afraid of him.”

Right, easier said than done.

And how does she know I’m nice?

When he opens his mouth to scream again, I quickly cover my face with my hand. After a few seconds, when I know I have his undivided attention, I peek through my fingers to see him staring. We begin a fast-paced game of peekaboo which has him giggling with laughter.

Finally, the mother gives the little guy a snack, and a few minutes later, he’s half asleep against her shoulder.

Vera smiles but doesn’t say anything.

The longer we fly, the less comfortable this is, though.

Jesus.

This is bullshit. I pull out my phone when she’s busy reading and text Aleks.

It’s the middle of the night, but thankfully, Aleks is usually a light sleeper, and the kids keep him up. He responds quickly.

When the flight attendant, a young woman with blonde hair in a tight bun at the back of her head, comes up to us a few minutes later, Vera startles. She’s deep into one of the books she brought in her carry-on.

“Vera Ivanova and Markov Pashnik?” she asks with a smile. “Please come with me.”

Aleks pulled through.

She turns to Vera. “You were meant to have an upgrade to first-class. I’m so sorry for the mix-up.” She says the same to me in Russian.

“Oh, thank God,” Vera says. “You speak Russian and English. Can you translate for us?”

The flight attendant nods. “Of course. First, let’s get you settled in your new seats. Unless it’s an urgent matter?”

Vera shakes her head. “Not at all.”

I take my phone and our carry-ons, and she takes her puzzle books, phone, ginger ale, and headphones, balancing them all precariously in her arms. I reach over and take a few of her things to add to my pile.

“Why, thank you.”

I nod silently and follow them to where the plane connects to the first-class section. I breathe a sigh of relief when we see our new seats. The spaciousness and comfort immediately put me at ease. Unlike our previous seats, these fully recline into flat beds. We have a little less than nine hours left, and I don’t know if I could’ve stood much longer in a seat built for a toddler.

“Oh, now this is better,” Vera breathes, laying back on her seat. “I might even get a nap here. It’s like each seat is its own little cocoon.”

“She says these are better seats, and she might even be able to rest,” the flight attendant repeats to me in Russian.

I’m a little disappointed she’s so far away now, but I know it’s just as well.

“Excellent,” I respond in Russian. “Please tell her it will be wise to rest before we arrive. Also, tell her she can rest easy; I will watch over her while she does.”

The flight attendant’s eyes go a little soft, the way a woman’s does when she sees a man do something particularly endearing. She relays the message to Vera.

“Before you go,” Vera says. “Can you please tell him thank you for everything?”

The flight attendant looks from me to her and back to me. “She says thank you.”

In Russian, I respond. “Please tell her, of course, it is my job.”

She looks at Vera and smiles. “He says it is his pleasure.”

That’s not exactly what I said, but the flush of Vera’s cheeks when she says it makes me wish that I had.

With more space between us, it’s easy for me to turn my phone to the side to see what she’s doing. She’s reading again. I take a peek. There’s a feather on the front and a silver lock.

Dominated by The Billionaire Hitman

Well, then. Isn’t that interesting, little Miss Vera.

I see a link for a sample preview and quickly click it.

My phone clatters to the floor. Vera looks up at me in surprise while I quickly grab it before she can see what’s on my screen.

Vera Ivanova is reading a book about rich, powerful men and submission and domination.

It’s just a book. Fiction. Fantasy. It doesn’t mean she’s actually. . . into any of that.

And even if she was, it’s none of my business.

None.

I steal a glance at her when she’s reading again. I notice her breathing has accelerated, and her cheeks are faintly flushed. It’s risky, mirroring her phone and seeing the exact place where she’s reading, but now that I’ve peeked. . . I have to know.

Before I can change my mind, I’m tapping on the app and her phone screen is popping up in front of me. I’ve never read anything like this in my life, but within minutes, I’m wrapped up in the filthiest sex scene I could’ve imagined.

I look back at the cover.

Feather and lock, my ass. Who knew what was hiding behind a cover like that?

I startle when Vera’s head falls to the side.

She’s sleeping. Only sleeping.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. Here in first class, we have ample room, freedom to move, and the luxury of space to sleep in. However, if someone flops around. . . which is exactly what Vera does. . . one can find oneself in close proximity.

Her hair’s tickling my arm. Her fragrance envelops me, and as I watch, her hand rests gently on her chest.

What is she dreaming about? A scene about being dominated by a powerful alpha male? Losing total control. . .

She’s lived a sheltered life, that much I know. She hides behind her books and big words, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that she lacks world experience. She has no current boyfriend, and based on what I’ve researched, she hasn’t had any serious relationships.

Yeah. I’d bet good money Vera Ivanova’s a virgin.

For one second too long, I allow myself time to fantasize. What would it be like to show her the world she only reads about? To dominate her, master her, see her sweet lips part in ecstasy and hear her seductive moan…

I shut the door on those thoughts with a ferocity that disallows anything more than perfect abstinence. I’ve done nothing but guard my emotions, yet I find myself attuned to her responses.

I remember how soft her hand felt when I shook it. How slight her body was when I moved her away from the luggage.

It would be a man’s greatest honor to dominate a woman like her. That level of trust. . . A challenge, yes, but one that I’d relish.

But I know I can’t allow myself to be swayed or to show weakness in any way, no matter how tantalizing she is.

I lean back in my chair and plan my next move.