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

“LIFT YOUR CHIN UP. And for Christ’s sake, Harper, stop scowling.”

Ironically, my mother scowling at me for scowling doesn’t make me want to plaster on a grin. Still, I don’t want to listen to her criticism, so I lift my chin and force the smallest of smiles. The truth is, I’m not even scowling. I’m tired, and I don’t feel like being used for the hundredth time. I also don’t want to have to contend with her rage, so I deal. It’s a “pick your battles” kind of situation.

“There, that’s better,” she says, lifting my chin. I blink under the harsh glare of overhead lighting. “Harper, have you been eating dairy again? What did I tell you it does to your complexion? There’s only so much foundation and primer one can use, you know.”

I sigh and clamp my lips tight to prevent the powder she’s dabbing on my nose from going in my mouth, but there’s the added benefit of not having to respond. Internally I tell her that the occasional tiny, barely perceptible pink dots on my chin probably have more to do with stress than an ice cream cone, but whatever.

I close my eyes. I learned a trick when I was a little girl that if I close my eyes when she’s primping me, I can pretend I’m getting ready for the big screen. Pretend it’s your team preparing you for the set.

“Good. Hold still. Your eyebrows are coming in again. Jesus, I thought we just plucked them.”

I open one eye. While she’s normally high-strung and irritable, this is heading to an advanced level even for her. I flinch when she ruthlessly tweezes a few eyebrow hairs as if they personally offended her.

“Not too much,” I protest. “It will make the skin all red and red’s harder to cover up.”

Pursing her lips in a thin line, she stands back and admires her handiwork. She scrutinizes my brows, my hair, my makeup, then gives me a nod. “You look beautiful,” she says coldly, without a hint of warmth or actual appreciation. She’s only being pragmatic and admiring the work she did.

There was a time when I could’ve said the same for her, but the years of covering up my father’s backhands have taken their toll.

It’s only when I see her lower lip tremble that I really begin to think that something’s really off.

I look around the room.

“Where’s the ring light?” I ask. By now, she should have gotten the ring light, the camera, and everything set to record and film my next splash on social media.

“Mom?” My heart begins to beat faster. “What’s going on here?”

Biting her lip, she doesn’t respond. Her eyes are shimmering with…tears?

What the hell? I can’t remember ever seeing my mother cry.

“Mom,” I say in a whisper, silently begging her to tell me something, anything, to let me know she’s half-human and I’m more to her than a pawn sliding across a chessboard.

A sharp knock sounds at the door.

“Time to go.” It’s my brother Saul.

Go…where?

She straightens her shoulders and presses her lips into a thin line.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice hardening. When she doesn’t answer, I turn and yank open the bedroom door.

Saul stands in the hallway, a mini, slimmer version of my dad, his brows knit together. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters. “Took you long enough.”

“If I’d known you were waiting, I’d have taken longer.”

Unruffled, he looks past me to Mom. “You didn’t tell her shit, did you?”

My stomach drops. What games are they playing with me now? “Tell me what?”

That’s when I notice Saul’s dressed in a suit. The only times I’ve ever seen him wear a suit was to funerals. This can’t be good.

He shakes his head and takes a step toward me so he can grip me by the arm. “You’ll see. And I’m telling you now, Harper, don’t you even think about running.”

My pulse spikes. I’m dizzy. I know exactly what my family’s capable of.

If he’s telling me not to run – then he’s planning something that’s going to make me want to. Are they making me fly to Italy again? Oh, God. No. I can’t leave, not again. I have to stay here. I’m needed here.

They like to give me shit for running but none of them know the real reason.

Saul curses under his breath as he marches me downstairs, his hand still tight on my arm. “Will you let go of me? I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds me tight. “She should’ve told you. Why did you think she made you get changed into something nice?”

My heart beats so fast I’m dizzy.

“Because we were doing a photo shoot. So I could post online, obviously.” I throw his own words back at him. “It’s my job, remember? How I earn my keep? It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“Did,” he says with a sigh. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, and I wasn’t gonna tell you before it was time, but now you need to know.”

Ice courses through my veins. I swallow, trying to quell my rising nerves but it doesn’t seem to satisfy the unease.

He’s walking me down the length of the hallway to the stairs, our steps noiseless on the thick carpet. This house is enormous. What most people don’t know is that three quarters of the rooms are vacant.

“So are you going to tell me or what?” I ask, my voice betraying me. The relentless quaking won’t stop.

He clenches his teeth. Stops marching me for a minute. Finally shakes his head and says in a rush of words, “Your future husband’s here.”

Before I can recover from the blow of what he just said, he grips my arm so hard I wince in pain. “No. Fucking. Running. I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you run. We’re here to discuss the details and if you fuck this up, there’ll be hell to pay.”

My mind is still stuck on… Future. Husband.

Of course I knew the chances of me being married off to someone were pretty high, but you think about it the same way you think about death. It’s there, it will come, but why worry about that now when it’s eons away?

I’m twenty years old. I haven’t even graduated college yet.

I think back to the look my mother had and the sinking feeling her obvious distress gave me. She loves to parade me around and cash in the clicks, and they love to take every penny I get, but this… this is different.

I try to yank my arm out of my brother’s grip, but it’s too tight. His fingers are digging into me so hard it’ll bruise.

We start walking again, this time at a faster pace and his grip has tightened.

“I won’t run,” I say tightly. “You’re hurting me.”

“I don’t trust you.” The impeccable carpet flies under our feet, the scent of lavender cleanser hitting my nose. My mother’s prepared for our guest, probably all day. How could I have missed this?

I try to get a grip as my mind reels. I try to coach my way through it.

I’ve been through way worse than this. I can handle whatever this is.

And he didn’t say I’m getting married today.

I can go play nice, pretend I’m docile… then find my way out. I’ve done it many times over the years. They’ve always found me, and there have always been repercussions, but I can do it. I know I can.

Do I hear a voice? I try not to imagine which one of the assholes my father hangs out with thinks he’s going to take me home.

Will it be the bald guy with the gold tooth? The one that’s always telling me I’m so pretty, and patting me on the head or copping a feel when he gets a chance? Will it be one of my brother’s many friends, reeking of pot and whiskey? Or some no-name don from Italy who wants a trophy wife?

It doesn’t matter who it is because I know how all of these men operate. I’ve spent my entire life as the daughter of a mobster.

They’ll take you and doll you up for a little while. Then they’ll placate you with house cleaners, extravagant vacations, and credit cards so you’ll overlook the way they reek of another woman’s perfume when they come to bed at night. Some demand order with the back of their hands. But none of them, not one, is ever loyal or faithful. If I’m lucky, he’ll be the type that will let me do what I want as long as I don’t scream at him when he decides to fuck some pretty little thing.

I won’t go, though.

I can’t.

The door opens. I lose the ability to speak when I hear the sound of a deep, accented voice, cold as ice and harsh as stone.

My knees shake, knocking into each other.

I thought by now I would’ve gotten braver, but I haven’t. I’m as terrified as ever, just like that night…

No, I can’t think of that now. I can’t think of anything except going along with whatever happens so I can get through this before I plan my escape.

I’ve been stashing away some money from tutoring. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to buy me time to get a cheap hotel and food when I’m on the run.

And I will be on the run. It’s complicated, though. So fucking complicated.

Saul and I stand at the closed doorway of the living room. ‘Smile big and watch your mouth. None of your fucking bullshit, Harper, or I swear to God…’

‘What? You gonna pull this in front of my future husband? He’s cool with that?’ At least my brother won’t be able to smack me around while he hands me over to someone who’ll probably fill his shoes.

‘Harper,” he grits through his teeth.

Asshole.

I thought I missed him when he enlisted. There were a handful of times when I was younger that he actually saved my ass. Once I even thought we were a team. He went to bat for me, risking my father’s wrath, even when my mother wouldn’t. But something shifted when he came back. He was a changed man and no longer my ally.

Saul opens the door. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“There she is.” My father’s booming voice makes me jump. I hate that I’m so skittish.

I remind myself of the only person who ever smiles when she sees me. The only person who loves me for who I am, no more, no less. And it’s for her sake that I’ll put on the brave face I’ve been taught to wear just to get through this.

I straighten my shoulders, the stranger still hidden behind the doorway. My father’s wearing his fake smile, the one that stretches his lips but doesn’t warm his eyes. Beads of sweat stand out on his receding hairline, his usual ruddy complexion even redder than normal after a few drinks.

“Harper, sweetheart. Come in and meet our guest.”

A chill skates between my shoulder blades. He’s pouring it on thick.

“Go,” Saul hisses. He gives me a merciless tug so hard I lose my footing. My heel catches on the doorframe and I tumble into the room, my hands fly in front of me to grab onto something to right myself… and land on the warm, unyielding, hard-as-hell frame of my future husband.

Sometimes in Hallmark movies, it’s cute how a woman stumbles, and her would-be suitor catches her, all gallant and charming. He might help stack the books that tumbled out of her arms after a wholesome trip to the library, or heroically offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Their eyes meet, their breath catches, Cupid twangs his arrow—and the rest is history.

There’s a reason that’s fiction.

My suitor catches my arms and pins me in place like I’m an errant bird that needs to be put back in her cage. He holds me in front of him, his glacial blue eyes glaring at me.

This one definitely doesn’t look old and sleezy… not with that hard jaw made more angular with his scowl, and short-cropped black hair that somehow makes his blue eyes look like they’re chiseled from ice. There’s no greasy hair or yellowed teeth, no stench of cigars or scent of stale alcohol. No. His well-tailored suit hugs his strong frame, the breadth of his shoulders alone casting me in shadow. He’s calm and collected, not leering or swaggering. In short, he’s the opposite of the men I’ve known, and the effect momentarily shocks me.

Or is he?

His rugged handsomeness exudes confidence and power… but something tells me to beware.

He carries an air of authority and a hint of power that exudes alpha male. King of the forest. Everything about him commands obedience, as if he rules my house even though he has no such claims on my family. It’s disarming, because a man like him doesn’t belong in the presence of my father and brother. He’s a king among jesters, and he’s staring at me with a derisive curl of his lips. I feel about two feet tall and as awkward as a child learning how to walk.

“Your daughter’s clumsy, Bianchi,” he says with a downturn of his brows. He’s the complete opposite of anything I’ve imagined.

“You should watch your step,” he snaps, in a voice tinged with that accent again.

Lovely. He’s a stunningly gorgeous jerk.

Experience tells me that the best way to avoid being punished is simply by not talking. I mentally wire my jaw shut even though I’m seething. My brother practically pushed me and even if I had tripped⁠—

His large, strong hands are still on my arms. His grip on me feels charged, as if electric pulses are vibrating through his palms. I feel out of sorts and don’t know what to do with myself. When he catches my gaze, he releases me.

“Sit,” he orders, pointing wordlessly to a vacant couch. “Your father and I have business to discuss.”

I narrow my eyes at him to let him know I won’t be rolling over and playing fetch for him. But I acquiesce this time since it’s only our first meeting and maybe we’ll have further chaperoned meetings to look forward to.

Yay.

The men all take seats, Saul next to me.

“My name is Aleksandr Romanov,” he says to my brother. He’s barely even looking at me. “You know my brother Mikhail.”

“I do,” Saul says, appearing too earnest, too eager, like a kid hoping to get some attention from the hero he worships. “I got him out of the big house, and he promised to marry off my sister before it’s too late.” He barks out a mirthless laugh. “Harper, meet Aleksandr Romanov.” I wait for him to say “your future husband” but he doesn’t have the balls.

“Pleased to meet you,” I lie with a sickly sweet smile I hope gives him indigestion.

He doesn’t return the civility but only stares at me impassively.

“Mr. Romanov has come here today with a request,” my father says, his eyes twinkling greedily. My stomach drops when the sound of my mother clearing her throat startles me. When did she come in here? I look over at her and she wordlessly pulls her shoulders back, a silent admonition to sit up straighter.

I straighten my posture and look away so she can’t boss me around again. My entire life consists of people telling me what to do and it seems this guy who thinks he’s actually marrying me is no exception.

“Yes?” I ask, when my father doesn’t continue.

My father fidgets and gives a subtle nod to my brother. Why, I have no idea.

“The Romanovs are in need of an alliance sooner than we’d planned,” my father continues. “That’s good news for you, Harper. Mr. Romanov is prepared to make you his wife. I’ve agreed to this arrangement. We’ll be making final plans by the end of this month.”

I stare, keeping my face impassive while I quickly do the math. It’s the sixth. That gives me just over three weeks.

Alright, then. Plenty of time to plan my escape.

Aleksandr purses his lips, clearly displeased. “That wasn’t what I said.”

I blink, surprised at his boldness. No one talks back to my father. The red splotches on his cheeks tell me he’s holding himself back. He wants this suitor. Likely needs this arrangement.

If he was kinder to me, I might feel bad for what I’m planning to do.

“Oh?” my father asks tightly. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Romanov?”

“Apologies for any misunderstandings.” God, I have literally never met a single other person who lied as well as my father and this man. The fake civilities are sickening. “I’d like to move on our agreement promptly. You know what we have to offer you, Bianchi. The offer’s only valid for twenty-four hours.”

What on earth is he offering my father? My father’s greedy eyes nearly bulge out of his head as he nods, his jowls shaking with enthusiasm.

“How soon are you thinking, sir?”

Aleksandr swivels his gaze to me and pinches his lips together. Instead of answering my father, he questions me. “I’m told you have a penchant for running. Do you like to run, Harper?”

The fact that he’s just called me out on the exact plan I have in mind makes me squirm uncomfortably. This is… not good.

I lick my lips and swallow, giving him a casual shrug. “I… used to when I was younger,” I say, my voice strangely husky. It’s true. As a child, I kept a suitcase packed and ready to go so I could escape. I’d be punished every time, but it was worth it to pretend I wasn’t under my mother’s thumb for a little while.

“Lying won’t be tolerated either,” he says in a clipped tone. “I happen to know that the last time you ran was six months ago.”

My cheeks burn with indignation. How does he know that about me?

My brother shakes his head. “I already told them the truth and what he can expect. There’s a reason we’ve made a move to make this happen sooner than later.”

But there’s a reason why I “run,” and it has nothing to do with what they think.

I’m not a child. I don’t run into oncoming traffic.

I find a way to escape so I can visit in private. And then I always return home, like a bird flying back to her gilded cage.

I turn my head away and don’t look at him.

The stranger clucks his tongue. “You’ve spoiled her, Bianchi.”

My brother squeezes my arm. I bite my cheek to keep from snapping back. I’m not like the other Italian princesses. I don’t have a penny to my name. No credit cards. No allowance.

“Spoiled?” my father says with a forced laugh. “I like to think she’s experienced and maybe a little indulged.”

Hardly. Another lie.

“You’ve arranged a marriage for me with a wife who’s rebellious, flighty, and clumsy, her only merit being mediocre good looks. In Russia, she wouldn’t hold a candle to most women.” He shakes his head. “Do you have any other daughters?”

Oh yeah? Well he can take his high-and-mighty ass back to Russia as far as I’m concerned. My nose stings and my cheeks flame as they continue to talk about me as if I’m a mannequin on display.

“Oh, I’m his one and only, and believe you me, I’m not spoiled,” I snap. I clamp my lips together so I don’t speak again when my mother gasps and my father glares at me. I have to choose my words carefully.

Romanov looks mildly amused if the faintest twinge of his lips are any indication. “Hmm. I have no other choices, and maybe I’ve misjudged. I never thought I’d be so lucky as to have a future wife who would be so demure.”

Add sarcastic to the list. Excellent.

I cross my arms over my chest. “And I never thought I’d be so lucky as to have a future husband that was so gentle and kind. I did hope for mildly attractive, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”

Fire burns in his eyes. “Life is just full of surprises, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“Right, right,” my father says, rubbing his hands together like the greedy asshole he is, ready to stroke the genie bottle and make his wish. “You say the offer is only valid for twenty-four hours, but we have no need. We’d like to move ahead with this arrangement.”

Would we, now?

I tell myself to wait until he leaves, then make my plan. Bite my tongue. Hold strong.

“Perfect,” Aleksandr says, briefly cutting his eyes to me. “We’ll leave immediately. Thank you for agreeing.”

Wait.

Immediately?Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

Even my mother looks shocked, her mouth agape and her posture stiffened, she flattens her well-manicured hand against her chest. “We, Mr. Romanov?”

He doesn’t bother looking at her when he replies. “Yes. I want to be married by the weekend. I’ll have my people draw up papers and send them to you.”

My mother blanches, but my brother nods. He knew this. He fucking knew this.

I can’t let him take me. If he takes me, there’s no hope.

“I haven’t packed anything. I’m not ready.”

I’m grasping for excuses, desperately trying to rationalize why I can’t simply leave. An overwhelming surge of panic floods me like icy water in my veins as dread as heavy as lead settles in my stomach. I can’t leave.

“I packed her things,” Saul says.

“No need,” Aleksandr says, his accent thickening. “She won’t need anything from home. She’ll start fresh with me. I’ll have my driver come around now.” He lifts his phone to his ear and snaps something out in Russian.

Start.

Fresh.

I stare as he takes something out of his pocket. A… checkbook? Who uses checks these days?

My father’s watery eyes gleam as he stares at the checkbook, like a dragon eying a pile of gold, drawn to it as if his life depended on it. If Romanov thinks he’s actually going to get a dowry…

“I’ll write you a check for all wedding expenses, under the condition that she comes back with me now.”

“I don’t know if that works for me,” my father says, the lying, greedy bastard. He doesn’t care at all about me, he’s only trying to wheedle. “My daughter’s innocence, Romanov…”

I look away, my throat tightening. He’s painting me as a virgin. In the Italian mafia, virginity is practically a requirement for an arranged marriage.

But what about… in the Russian mafia? How does this work?

My father knows I’m not a virgin. It’s the very reason he despises me and wants to get rid of me. They’re tricking Romanov with damaged goods and when he finds out… and he absolutely will…

“Don’t play the altruist now, Bianchi,” Aleksandr says in a bored voice. “I won’t touch her until our wedding. But if I have my way, that will be in two days’ time.”

I stifle a gasp.

Two days’ time.

How am I going to get away? If he takes me now —

“I can’t pack anything?” I ask, my voice trembling. I don’t care about my clothes, but I do have a few special trinkets that matter to me. The little box with a lock of hair, a folded picture, and a tiny charm that are mine. They have to come with me.

“No.” He stands. “Do we have a deal or not?”

My father rises with him, his greedy eyes widening.

“Of course we do.”

My mother stands with him, paling.

I shake my head when the reality of the situation hits me hard. “I…I can’t go with you now. No. I won’t go. I don’t even know you. I can’t just leave everyone and everything behind like that. If you want me to come to you before the wedding⁠—”

“Harper,” Mom snaps. My brother watches in stony silence. My father looks apoplectic when he realizes I’m not going easily. I know that look well, his complexion splotchy and red, the thin line of his lips. It’s a wonder he hasn’t broken a blood vessel.

I shake my head, a strange memory from high school coming to me. My high school poetry teacher, standing in front of the class, his hand on his heart as he recited a poem.

A poem about death and going gently and fighting against it all, that I loved so much I went home and memorized it.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night…

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

“Harper. Go with Mr. Romanov,” my mother urges fervently, as if she wishes she could talk me into doing the impossible. “He will take good care of you.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so scared.

I shake my head. No. I won’t go. I can’t.

My future husband slides out of his suit coat. The taut fabric of his dress shirt stretches tight against his abs, biceps bulging the sleeves. Great, he’s strong, too. At least my father’s loser friends would’ve been easier to outrun. He snaps his gaze to my father’s. “Do we have a deal or not, Bianchi?”

My heart leaps into my throat. Oh my God.

My father nods, fanning himself with the folded check.

“Yes. We have a deal.” His cold eyes narrow at me and swipes the check in my general direction. “Take her.”

I shake my head and step back. “You can’t take me,” I whisper.

I feel the wall of my brother’s body at my back. The ghost of his hands at my arms before Romanov snaps, “Touch her and I’ll fucking kill you. She’s mine now.”

Oh, God. Nausea spirals in my stomach. My hands shake. It’s now or never.

Wait. My brother dies if he touches me.

He can’t stop me. It’s my only chance.

I gather my courage, take a deep breath.

I stomp as hard as I can on my brother’s foot. Elbow him. I shove him clumsily toward Romanov and make a break for it.