Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)
Chapter 29

“WHERE’S THE bathroom?” I demand, trying to break the silence that’s settled between us.

Victor gives me a look, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Thinking of making a run for it? It’s a long way to the nearest Starbucks, just so you know.”

I snort. “Please! Like I could escape. I’d probably get lost in your closet.”

He shoots me a roguish smirk, the kind that spells trouble and has temptation written all over it, then steers us both away from the dining hall, guiding me deeper into the mansion’s maze-like corridors.

Walking through this mansion feels like trekking across a small country, except with more chandeliers and less fresh air. We stroll past guards who nod like they’re part of the royal guard and maids with smiles so fixed, I wonder if they’re superglued on.

The place is so stuffed with luxury it’s like breathing in dollar bills—suffocating and slightly absurd. The endless parade of rooms and corridors starts to blend together into one big, lavish blur.

Victor glances at me, a flicker of knowing in his eyes.

“You don’t need the bathroom,” he says, his grip on my hand firm yet not unkind. We’re close, our bodies nearly touching as we walk.

“Maybe I do,” I say, frustrated. I’m making a valiant attempt to yank my hand back, but let’s face it, in this tug-of-war, I’m as likely to win as a Chihuahua in a heavyweight boxing match. My hand in his feels like a peanut tucked in the palm of a giant—Luka’s hands could probably double as catchers’ mitts without anyone batting an eye.

“Let go of me.”

“Not happening.”

Fine, I quit. Picking battles wisely is apparently a skill I need to sharpen, especially around him.

“You know, a few signs wouldn’t hurt. I’ve officially lost my breadcrumbs back to the dining hall.”

He aims a quick glance at me. “You’ll learn your way around soon enough. You have a year to get used to this place,” Victor says with that chilly detachment of his.

“Oh, joy. A whole year to become a human GPS of the Morozov Manor. Can’t wait,” I retort.

His lips twitch; a hint of a smile, maybe? Or a prelude to a snarl. With Victor, it’s hard to tell. “Enthusiasm. I like that,” he deadpans, leading me down another corridor that looks like all the others—gold, gaudy, and grossly grand.

I bite my lip, pondering over the contract, the wedding, the entire bizarre scenario I’ve found myself in. Questions swirl in my head like a particularly annoying swarm of bees, but fear clamps down on my tongue. What does one ask a mafia lord about a contract that’s more a leash than a legal document?

“So, about this wedding…” I begin, but my voice trails off. The words feel like boulders, too heavy to haul into the open.

Victor’s gaze flickers to me, and for a moment, I see the shift—from the lord of the manor to the predator assessing its prey. It’s a look that says I’m playing a game whose rules I don’t quite understand.

“What about it?” he prompts. As he says this, his grip on my hand tightens, almost like he’s worried I’ll bolt at the first chance.

“Should I expect doves, or is that too ‘subtle’ for the Morozov flair?”

He hesitates for a moment, considering. “Actually, we lean toward dragons, but it turns out they don’t follow directions well,” he jokes, guiding me through yet another lavish hallway.

“Didn’t realize you had a sense of humor,” I remark, keeping my tone light despite the swirling questions about the contract, the wedding, and what my future holds in this gilded cage.

Two maids approach and Victor’s demeanor shifts to his usual jerk self. He doesn’t smile or make eye contact.

We turn a corner, and the corridor narrows. The decorations here are sparse, a stark contrast to the lavishness we’ve left behind. The air grows cooler, the ambiance shifting. My curiosity is piqued despite my apprehension.

“Seriously, where are we going?”

Victor pauses before a door that seems ripped from a history book, all aged wood and iron. He lets go of my hand, pushing the door open. No eerie creak follows, just a silent swing that reveals a room unlike any other in the mansion.

“Victor, this doesn’t look like any bathroom I’ve ever seen,” I remark as I step into the room.

The walls are lined with family photos in black and white, their edges yellowed with age, the faces stoic. I can’t help but wander closer, drawn to the dates marking monumental moments—World War I, World War II.

I turn, taking in every detail, and I notice more than just photographs. Every item in the room is thoughtfully arranged.

There’s a display of antiques: a vase with intricate patterns, a statue of a Chinese horse that looks like it belongs in a museum, and newspaper cuttings framed on the wall, telling stories of past glories and tragedies.

My steps slow as I approach a massive wall filled with faces from another era, their expressions captured in grayscale. My eyes scan the dates, each one a gateway to a story long concluded.

“Are these your ancestors?” I ask, unable to hide the awe in my voice. My jaw slackens as the magnitude of history before me sinks in. This room isn’t just utilitarian; it’s also a personal museum, showing off the Morozov Bratva’s legendary history that goes way back.

Victor is behind me, watching, a hint of pride flickering in his eyes.

“Every family has its guardians of history.”

“But… why are you… showing these to me?” Whipping around, I shoot him a questioning look.

There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Patience, little firecracker.”

It’s like my heart’s caught in a high-speed chase as I watch him lock the door with purposeful clicks.

He turns and starts walking toward me; his intense stare travels up and down my body, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

I can’t tear my gaze away from his; shock courses through me as my body betrays me, my nipples hardening into tight peaks. A surge of intense heat ignites between my thighs, causing me to gasp for air.

I press my lips together, mustering every ounce of fake confidence I have. 

“Planning to lock me up in some secret chamber for a year?” The question flies out before I can stop it, suddenly feeling way too real.

Inside, I’m practically screaming. A million and one thoughts ricochet through my mind.

Victor just strides closer, a predator in a suit. Before I know it, he’s in my personal space.

I instinctively step back until—thud.

My head nearly collides with the wall, but his hand is there, cushioning the blow. Great, now he’s literally the only thing standing between me and a concussion.

He’s so close I can count the threads in his suit.

“Why? Do you want to get locked up in a secret chamber?”

My eyes narrow. “Asshole,” I snap back.

Victor’s eyebrows raise. “Let me remind you, asking too many questions isn’t exactly healthy around here.”

I’m breathing heavily, staring into those goddamn captivating, wild gray eyes.

“You don’t scare me,” I bluff, quickly dropping my gaze to avoid those intense eyes, landing on his chest instead. Big mistake. His chest looks like it’s straight out of an action hero’s wardrobe, all muscle and no fluff.

“Back off, or I swear—

Victor laughs, low and husky. “Warnings from you sound more like invitations.”

Pushing against what feels like a marble statue, I try to regain some personal space.

To my utter shock, he takes a step back, his smirk turning into a twisted grin. “Remember that fire when we fuck. Let’s see just how explosive you can be, little firecracker.”

What the hell did he just say?!

My blood runs cold at the suggestion, and I open my mouth to protest, but his hand shoots up toward my face.

Great, now he’s going to silence me the old-fashioned way.

I flinch and brace myself to scream, but… instead, his fingers brush past my ear, and there’s this beep sound. Like magic, the wall behind me shifts, and I’m falling backward, only to be yanked back into his arms.

He’s got me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, and all I can think is how absurdly good he smells—like sin and something spicy, a scent that makes me want to forget why I was mad in the first place.

Victor steadies me with a firm grip.

“Let’s go,” he says, his voice steady. I catch his gaze, then turn around.

“What the…?” I stumble over my words.