His Ruthless Vow by Eve Newton

I’m not being married. I’m being traded.
A signature to stop a war. A vow to seal a deal. A ring to make me quiet—pretty property with a pulse.
But the man they tell me is the safer option is Bratva-bred, London-polished, the kind of man who smiles while he decides where to bury you.
I’ve seen his kind up close.
Men like Laszlo Voronov don’t do love. They do leverage. They do ownership. They do vows that sound like protection and feel like handcuffs.
My dress is white. My future is red.
He doesn’t ask if I agree. He doesn’t pretend I have a choice. He just takes my hand like it’s already decided.
His voice is calm when he tells me the rules.
One: I’m his. Two: I will be kept. Three: If I run, he’ll bring me back.
Fear would be the sensible response.
Instead, I make a vow of my own. If he wants a ruthless wife… I’ll be one.