Page 47 of Secret Bratva Twins

He picked these out for me.

The thought sends a rush of conflicting emotions through me—anger, defiance, and a traitorous flicker of anticipation I can’t quite suppress. Does he think he can control me completely? Dress me like a doll and mold me into the perfect wife?

Yet, there’s something else beneath the surface. Something I don’t want to admit.

The truth is, Serge has always had a way of unraveling me. Even when I hated him most, there was no denying the pull between us, the way his touch could ignite something in me that no one else ever could. I crave him, even now. The thought alone makes my breath catch.

I brush away the fog on the mirror with a trembling hand, staring hard at my reflection. My damp hair clings to my skin, my lips slightly parted. I look like a woman bracing herself for something she doesn’t understand but can’t resist.

I shouldn’t feel this way. He’s dragged me into his world, into a life I never wanted. He’s dangerous, controlling, infuriating. There’s no denying that he’s also captivating in a way I can’t escape.

My fingers brush over the silk of the lingerie, and I hesitate. Am I really going to wear this for him? The answer should be no. I should rebel, fight him at every turn.

I don’t.

I slip the silk over my skin, the cool fabric clinging to my curves like a second skin. It’s too revealing, too intimate, and yet it feels right in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. I spritz a touch of the perfume onto my wrists and throat, the scent immediately wrapping around me like a whispered promise.

My nerves twist tighter with each passing second as I glance toward the door. He’s waiting for me. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s from fear, excitement, or something darker that I don’t want to name.

The bathroom feels too small, too confining. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Whatever happens, I can’t let him see how nervous I am. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

The truth is, I’m terrified.

Terrified of what he’ll do. Terrified of whatI’lldo.

I smooth my damp hair back, straighten my shoulders, and step toward the door. My hand hovers over the handle for a moment before I turn it, pushing the door open slowly.

The bedroom is dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the room. Serge stands near the bed, hishands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His jacket is gone, the crisp white of his shirt rolled up at the sleeves, exposing his forearms. He looks relaxed, almost casual, but there’s a tension in the way he watches me.

His icy-blue eyes sweep over me, taking in every inch of my appearance. I feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch, and my breath catches despite myself.

“You’re ready,” he says, his voice low and deliberate.

I take a step forward, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. My pulse thunders in my ears as I meet his gaze, my heart a warzone of emotions I can’t control.

“Yes,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I mean it.

His lips curve into the faintest smirk, and he gestures toward the bed. “Come here,wife.”

My stomach flips at the word, but I force myself to move, each step bringing me closer to whatever comes next.

The scent of the perfume I’d sprayed lingers in the air, soft and alluring, mingling with the rich spice of his cologne. The combination is intoxicating, wrapping around us like an invisible thread drawing us closer. Serge doesn’t take his eyes off me as I step further into the room, each movement deliberate, hesitant. The silk of the lingerie clings to my skin, its coolness a stark contrast to the heat spreading through me.

He closes the distance between us in a few strides, his presence overwhelming, suffocating in its intensity. My heart pounds as he stops just inches away, his eyes boring into mine. I try to hold his gaze, to show him I’m not afraid, but the pull between us is too strong, my resolve faltering under the weight of his dominance.

“You look perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent. But there’s nothing gentle about the way he grips mychin, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. His fingers are firm, commanding, and the roughness of his touch sends a shiver through me.

“Serge,” I start, but the words die on my lips when he leans down, his mouth crashing against mine.

The kiss is rough, unrelenting, his lips demanding submission. It’s not tender or sweet—this is about control, about staking his claim. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me in place as his mouth moves against mine, taking, consuming.

I freeze at first, my instincts screaming to push him away, to fight. My hands press against his chest, but the solid muscle beneath my palms only reminds me of his strength. His other hand slides down, gripping my waist possessively, and I feel his heat seeping through the thin fabric of the lingerie.

I want to resist. I tell myself I should, that I hate him, that this is wrong. But the truth is, I want this. I’ve wanted this for longer than I care to admit. No one else has ever made me feel this way—like I’m burning alive and I don’t want it to stop.

My resistance crumbles as his tongue sweeps over my lips, demanding entry. I part them, letting him in, and a low growl rumbles in his chest as he deepens the kiss. My hands move from his chest to his shoulders, clutching him tightly as if I might fall.

His scent surrounds me, heady and intoxicating. The spice of his cologne mixed with the faintest trace of something earthy and warm. It’s a stark contrast to the delicate floral notes of the perfume he’d chosen for me, and together, they create an atmosphere that’s almost suffocating in its intensity.

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