All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

SergeiThe enormity of my relief is indescribable. She believes me. She's not running, not screaming, not reaching for the phone to call the police. It's like a ton of weight has just fallen off my chest, leaving me dizzy and breathless."In Budapest..." she begins, licking her lips in that nervous gesture I've come to recognize. "When did you find out that I'm the woman from the Masked Nights?""After Tibor tried to... hurt you, and I brought you to my house, I knew. I recognized your voice, your story. The way you moved, the sounds you made..." I clear my throat, heat flooding my face like I'm some teenager admitting to his first crush. "After you told me who your father was. I connected the dots.""You knew all along?" The whisper carries the weight of betrayal, of trust broken and carefully rebuilt."Yes," I admit, because there's no point in softening it now. "I thought it was safer to keep it a secret. For you. For me.""Safer?" Her laugh is bitter, sharp. "How is not telling me

TamaraThe pain in his voice cracks something open inside my chest. For all his sins, for all the darkness he carries, the fear of losing this baby is achingly real. Human. It reminds me that before he was a killer, before he was the man who destroyed my world, he was someone who loved deeply enough to be destroyed by loss.I think of Masha's photograph in his Budapest home— the radiant woman with her hand resting on her pregnant belly. The child who became Slava, who survived when his mother didn't. The family that Viktor Kozlov tore apart for money and cruelty.Viktor, who revealed my father's crimes with such casual malice. Who showed me that Jesse Yevgeniy— the man I'd worshipped, the healer I'd built my identity around— was actually a criminal who exploited vulnerable women and sold their children to the highest bidder.The baby trafficking operation. Millions of dollars stolen. Vulnerable mothers exploited. Everything I thought I knew about my father was a lie, and the man kneel

TamaraThe words send heat pooling between my thighs, my core clenching with anticipation. By the time he sinks onto the couch with me, I'm trembling with want, my body singing with need for his touch.His hands immediately return to frame my face like he can't bear not to be touching me. The golden light from the nearby lamp bathes everything in gold, making this moment feel dreamlike and surreal."You're sure?" he asks quietly. "Being my wife..." His lips are close enough to brush mine. "It won't be easy."Instead of answering with words, I pull him back down and kiss him again, pouring every ounce of my desire into the contact. My hands find the edges of his robe, tugging it down his shoulders with desperate fingers, needing to feel his skin against mine.He breaks the kiss long enough to help me strip silk garment away, revealing the magnificent expanse of his chest. Muscle and scars and ink, all of it perfect and masculine and mine. My palms flatten against his heated flesh, mapp

TamaraThe next few days blur together in a whirlwind of legal documents and stolen moments.Sergei becomes a force of nature, all focused intensity and relentless efficiency as he navigates the bureaucratic maze of marriage licenses and paperwork. I watch him make phone calls in rapid-fire Russian, watch him spread documents across the desk in his hotel suite like a general planning a campaign, watch him move through the world with the kind of purpose that bends reality to his will."Birth certificate," he mutters, adding another paper to one of several neat stacks. "Divorce decree— not applicable. Medical records— Christ, they want everything but a blood sample.""They might want that too," I say from my spot curled up on the couch, trying to focus on the book in my lap instead of the way his dress shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for another file.He looks up at me with those impossibly beautiful eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifts in something that's part smile

TamaraThe day of our wedding dawns crisp and clear, Boston autumn turning everything red and gold and making it look like it's been touched by magic.I wake up in Sergei's arms— our arms, I correct myself, because after today there won't be his and mine anymore, just ours."Good morning, Mrs. Sidorova," he murmurs against my neck, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction."Not yet," I remind him, but I can't keep the smile out of my voice. "You have to wait until this afternoon to call me that officially."His response is to roll me beneath him and kiss me senseless, his hands roaming over my body like he's memorizing territory he plans to claim forever. We make love slowly, tenderly, with none of the desperate hunger that's characterized these past few days. This is different— gentle, almost ceremonial, like we're already beginning the ritual that will bind us together.Afterward, we lie tangled in sheets that smell like sex and promises, his fingers combing through my hair while