Page 28 of Ruthless Bratva King

My imagination won’t be dissuaded, and just like that, I’m back in the library. Dmitri is there, leaning casually against the desk, his dark eyes fixed on me. His gaze is scorching, burning through every layer of defense I’ve ever built.

“You can’t keep running from me, Elena,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly caress.

“I’m not running,” I reply, though my breathless tone gives me away.

He steps closer. Too close. My heart pounds as his hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing over my jawline. The touch is electric, sending a shiver down my spine.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he murmurs, his lips so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath. “I can see it in your eyes. You want me.”

Before I can answer, his mouth is on mine. The kiss is demanding, consuming, a storm of passion and control that leaves me reeling.

His hands are on my waist, pulling me against him, and I melt into the strength of his body, the heat of his touch.

It’s overwhelming. It’s everything. It’s?—

I jolt awake, my heart racing, my body trembling. I sit up, clutching the blankets to my chest, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

It’s a long time before I can get back to sleep.

22

ELENA

Isit at the desk in the hotel suite, papers sprawled across the surface as I sketch out the lines of my dream home.

The house is sprawling but not ostentatious. A place meant for living a peaceful life.

A whitewashed house with wide porches that wrap around the sides, hugged by blooming hydrangeas in every imaginable shade of blue.

A red front door, bold and welcoming, stands at the heart of it all. The windows are tall and plentiful, flooding every corner of the home with sunlight.

I sketch the kitchen next—a wide, open space with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams.

A long butcher-block island sits at the center, surrounded by mismatched barstools that would be claimed by sticky-fingered children every morning.

I can almost smell the cookies baking in the double ovens and hear the sound of giggles bouncing off the walls.

The living room comes to life next, its soft, overstuffed couches begging for lazy Sunday afternoons.

A stone fireplace dominates one wall, its hearth warm and inviting, with a mantle covered in family photos.

In the corner, a tall Christmas tree sparkles, even though it’s not December in real life. It doesn’t matter.

My pencil slows, hovering over the paper as my mind drifts. I don’t know when it happened, but Dmitri sneaks into the picture. The vision shifts ever so slightly, and now I’m sketching a family home—not just mine, butours.

I picture him walking through the front door in some tailored suit, a newspaper in hand like he’s stepped out of another era.

There’s an elegance about him that matches the home in ways I hadn’t anticipated. He sets the paper down on the kitchen counter and rolls up his sleeves, revealing those powerful forearms I can’t stop thinking about, as he helps me cook dinner.

The vision expands further. There’s laughter in the house—children darting through the hallways, one tugging at Dmitri’s pant leg while another holds up a crayon drawing for his approval.

He kneels down to their level, ruffling their hair, his deep chuckle filling the room like music.

God, I’ve lost it. I mean, what would Dmitri evendoin this house? Take off his shoes and leave them by the door? Scrub the sink after brushing his teeth? The man probably hasn’t cooked a meal in his life.

I laugh softly at the absurdity of it, shaking my head. But it doesn’t stop me from sketching the master bedroom. Vaulted ceilings again, this time with a skylight above the bed to let the moonlight in.

A plush, oversized bed sits at the center, its white linens perfectly rumpled.

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