Page 2 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes a small step closer, and I can see his face more clearly in the dappled light. My breath catches in my throat. There’s familiarity in his hazel eyes and the sharp cut of his jaw.

“You look just like him,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat. “Dmitri.”

The smile finally reaches his eyes, but it’s not a kind smile.

“I’m his brother,” he says in a low rumble. “Roman.”

Brother.

Except Dmitri didn’t have a brother. He was an only child, raised alone by his father because his mother died young. At least, that’s what he told me.

“I didn’t know he had a brother,” I manage to say, but my voice is thin.

“There’s a lot you didn’t know about him,” Roman says, his gaze flicking to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “He was good at keeping secrets.”

Somewhere behind us a car engine rumbles, and it jolts me back to reality.

The mourners are drifting toward the parking lot, their umbrellas bobbing through the gray.

My borrowed time is up. I need to get away from this man and his sharp smile that looks too much like Dmitri’s.

“I have to go,” I say.

When I turn to leave, his hand clamps around my wrist. I snatch it back, but his grip is firm enough I can’t even stumble backward.

“Wait,” he says.

I look back at him, then past him. Dad is still standing by the grave, and he’s watching us. He’s too far to hear anything, but he’s close enough. If I pulled away and shouted, he’d come running. He’d put himself between me and this stranger like he’s done a hundred times before.

“Let go of me,” I say. It comes out flat, even as my pulse kicks up.

Roman doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in, close enough that I can smell rain and leather.

“Five minutes. Walk with me.”

I know I should yank my arm free and march back to my father. Roman can go back to whatever hole he crawled out of.

I’m tired of lies. I’m tired of finding out my husband was a stranger.

Except... I want to know what he has to say. What else will he tell me?

“Fine.” I pull my arm from his grip. “Five minutes.”

Roman doesn’t offer me his arm, but he stays close enough that I can smell the leather and sandalwood of his cologne which is even stronger now.

I cast a glance over my shoulder. My father is still by the grave, watching. I raise my hand and wave, a small, reassuring gesture. I’m fine. Everything is fine. He raises his own hand in response, hesitant, and turns back toward the waiting cars. I don’t know if he’s convinced. I don’t know if I’m convinced.

We walk in silence for a minute. The rain has eased to a thin drizzle, barely more than mist. The cemetery stretches out around us, rows of headstones and monuments. Wet gravel crunches with each step.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“The family mausoleum.”

I look at him. “Dmitri isn’t entombed there.”

“No.”