THE BRATVA KING’S PET {MXM}

ILYA’S POV

The lace of my wedding suit felt like chains, wrapping around me tighter with every breath. The fabric was smooth against my skin, tailored to the bastard’s exact taste, cut and measured like I was being fitted into a role I hadn’t agreed to play. It may as well have been ropes binding me to my fate. This wasn’t ceremonial attire. It was a costume—a cruel joke. Not meant to make me beautiful but to make me Claimed.

The thorns of the bouquet bit into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me. Blood welled under my grip, smearing the edges of the roses. I didn’t loosen my hold. I wanted to feel it, wanted the sting to drown out the boiling rage inside me. If I bled, at least it was still mine.

But it wasn’t the roses or the suit that made my blood burn.

It was him.

Pavel Zaitsev stood at the altar, every inch of him radiating control. His broad shoulders were squared, his sharp jawline catching the light streaming through the cathedral windows. The scar along his jaw only added to the picture of danger he exuded.

He wasn’t marrying me because he wanted me. He was marrying me to absorb me. To fold my name, my body, my future into his and call it order.?

The priest’s voice dragged me out of my thoughts. His calm, steady tone carried over the low murmur of the crowd. The halls were filled with Bratva elites, their eyes gleaming with curiosity and satisfaction. Men who understood exactly, this was  not a union, but a public realignment of power.

My humiliation was their entertainment.

Not because I was weak—but because I was being made weaker in front of them. Getting married to a man! Dragged here on an alter! I Ilya Volkov, a wife for Pavel Zaitsev.

At the front row sat my father, his hunched figure totally different to the powerful man he once was. He kept his gaze fixed on the  floor, too ashamed to look at me. Or maybe too afraid to acknowledge that his son was being handed over like collateral.

The priest turned to Pavel.

“Do you, Pavel Zaitsev, take Ilya Volkov to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The word wife landed so wrong. Heavy. Final. A title that stripped more than it gave…. I'd been reduced to this.

Pavel didn’t hesitate. His icy blue gaze stayed locked on mine as he said, “I do.”

The words stabbed into me like a knife. My fists clenched around the bouquet, and I had to fight the urge to scream. Somewhere deep down, I’d held onto the hope however foolish that he would call this off. That even Pavel Zaitsev would find this charade too crude, too obvious. A bore waste of his time 

But oh no. He didn’t flinch. Men like him never did. That was how they survived.

The priest turned to me.

“And do you, Ilya Volkov, take Pavel Zaitsev—”

“I do,” I snapped before he could finish. My voice rang cold and clear, cutting through the tension in the room. I wouldn’t give Pavel the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate. In this world, hesitation was the same as surrender.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was recognition. As the priest announced us husbands, he leaned in close, his breath brushing against my ear—intimate enough to be mistaken for affection by anyone stupid enough to believe in it.

“Smile, Ilya,” he whispered, his voice as smooth as silk. “It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”

My chest tightened as the muscles in my face strained to obey. I forced a smile, though it felt more like a baring of teeth. He wanted me to play the part? Fine. I would. But not the way he expected.

“I’ll kill you before I ever call you my husband,” I hissed, my voice low but venomous. His wicked grey eyes glittered with amusement as he straightened. 

“You’ll call me whatever I want, sweetheart. By the time I’m done, you’ll beg to.” He pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. I could barely hide my irritation. He wasn’t just showing off—he was signaling ownership. Letting them see I already belonged to him.

The ceremony ended, but the nightmare didn’t. As we walked back down the aisle, all eyes followed us. Not admiration. Assessment. The weight of their gazes made my skin crawl. I wasn’t being congratulated. I was being catalogued.

Pavel didn’t bother opening the car door for me—not that I expected him to. I climbed in on my own, the heavy fabric of my suit bunching awkwardly around me. Even dressed like this, I felt exposed.

The limousine ride to his penthouse was stifling. The silence between us was thick, the tension dense enough a knife could cut through. I stared out the window, pretending he didn’t exist, pretending this city hadn’t just watched me be claimed by another man and called it tradition.

“You should thank me,” he said suddenly, his tone calm and almost bored. I turned my head slowly, glaring at him.

 “Thank you? For what? Destroying my family? For forcing me into this marriage?”

“For giving you a purpose,” he replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Before this, you were nothing. A spoiled prince with no future. Now, at least, you’re useful.”

Useful!... Spoiled Prince?  How dare the cocky dipshit reduce me to a single word? I was a bratva prince! Leading the Volkov clan before my father had gotten Into a lifelong debt built on stupid decisions.

My nails dug into my palms, my rage simmering just beneath the surface. “You mistake cruelty for purpose, Pavel. You’re nothing more than a tyrant hiding behind money and power.” He chuckled softly, leaning back in his seat. 

“I don’t need your approval, Ilya. I already have everything I want.” The car pulled into the underground garage of his penthouse. The towering glass building loomed above us, far from the city like a fortress. Its glassy windows reflected the sky, but it felt cold, unwelcoming—designed to watch, not to shelter.

“Welcome to your new home,” Pavel said as the driver opened his door. He stepped out first, then turned back and extended a hand to me. I stared at it for a moment. A test. Everything with him was a test.  Then I ignored him, climbing out on my own. He smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement, like I’d just confirmed something he already knew.

The penthouse was breathtaking. Every inch of it screamed luxury, from the polished marble floors to the crystal chandeliers. It was the kind of place I would’ve admired once. But now, all I saw was a cage. 

“Do you like it?” Pavel asked as he followed me into the living room. I didn’t answer at first. My eyes darted to the windows—reinforced with iron bars. The doors were bolted, heavy, and solid. Cameras blinked in the corners of the ceiling, watching silently.

“It’s a cage,” I said finally, my voice cold. Pavel chuckled.

 “It’s only a cage if you try to escape. Otherwise, it’s paradise.” I turned to him, my hazel eyes blazing with anger. 

“You’ll regret this, Pavel. One day, you’ll realize you made a terrible mistake.” He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. His smirk widened as he loomed over me, not like a husband, but like a superior correcting a subordinate. 

“The only mistake I made was not breaking your family sooner. Stop pretending you have the upper hand, Ilya. You lost the moment you walked down that aisle.” He was right—and I hated him for it. Hated that part of me that understood exactly how this world worked, because I’d been raised in it too.

He opened a door and gestured inside—a room meant to be mine. Assigned. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall, disappearing from view.  I stepped inside and sank onto the edge of the bed, my hands trembling. I bit back the tears threatening to fall. Not because I was broken—but because I refused to give him that satisfaction.

As I glanced around, something caught my eye—a glint of metal under the bed. I crawled down and pulled it out: a knife. Its blade was smooth, sharp, and cold against my fingers. Too perfect. Too deliberate.

For the first time all day, I felt hope, And underneath it, something uglier—anticipation.

Hours passed. The penthouse was dark and silent, but the knife in my hand felt steady, comforting.

I moved quietly down the hall, my steps soft against the floor. My heart pounded as I pushed open the door to Pavel’s room.

He was sprawled across the massive bed, his chest rising and falling steadily. In sleep, he looked different—less like the monster I hated and more like a man who bled the same way everyone else did.

The moment passed. I raised the knife, aiming for his heart.

Before I could strike, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist. The strength was immediate,  and my failure was humiliating.

“Predictable,” he said, his voice low and sharp. In one swift motion, he flipped me onto the bed, pinning me beneath him. The knife clattered to the floor as his weight pressed down on me, male, absolute, undeniable domination 

“You’re pathetic,” he said, his tone filled with disgust.

“Let me go!” I spat, struggling against him, hating the way my body registered his proximity before my mind could shut it down. He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. 

“If you’re going to kill me, Ilya, try harder next time. This was embarrassing.” The realization hit me like a punch—he’d planted the knife there on purpose. Not to tempt me. To measure me. This was his game all along.

“I’ll try again,” I hissed, my voice shaking with rage.

“I’m counting on it,” he said, his blue eyes dark and unrelenting. “Hate me all you want, sweetheart. You’ll never hate me more than I hate you.” And that was when I understood—he didn’t hate me because I was weak, He hated me because I wasn’t. This would be a lifelong gamw to him,

He released me suddenly, stepping back. I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing, every nerve on fire, heat spreading across my body.

“This isn’t over,” I said, my voice low and deadly.

“No,” he replied, his smirk returning. “It’s just beginning. Besides… you might want to hide that hard cock of yours  ilya, you say one thing, but your body says another.”