Page 29 of Ruthless Bratva King

Our bed.

There’s a balcony off the bedroom, overlooking a backyard that feels endless. Rolling green hills, a lazy stream windingthrough the far end, and a tree swing hanging from a massive oak.

It’s everything I never had growing up in the cramped, damp apartment with its peeling wallpaper and the smell of mildew that never quite went away. Back then, I would sit by the single window in our living room and dream of places like this.

I never imagined I’d be designing one, let alone dreaming about someone like Dmitri in it with me.

I picture him watching me from the doorway of this house, his eyes soft but filled with that same intensity that always undoes me. “This is where we belong,” he says, his voice low and certain.

“Yeah,” I whisper to no one, my heart aching as I head through to the suite’s bedroom. “I know.”

23

ELENA

The sound of a faint click wakes me. I blink into the darkness, disoriented.

The bedside lamp is off, and shadows stretch across the room, unfamiliar and unsettling. I sit up and glance at the clock. Midnight.

Something isn’t right. My pulse quickens as I scan the room.

Someone’s in here with me.

I freeze, my blood turning to ice.

A figure is standing by the window, his broad frame silhouetted by the faint glow of the city lights outside. His expression is unreadable, his hand gripping a knife as he stares at me, eyes glinting.

My breath catches in my throat. “Dmitri?”

The blade catches the faint light for a moment before he slides it into his pocket.

His movements are deliberate, careful, like he’s trying not to startle me. There’s something in his other hand. Is that the jade statue?

“I was securing the room,” he says, his voice low and steady.

My heart pounds against my ribs. “With a knife in your hand?”

He takes a step closer, his gaze hardening like I’ve caught him in the middle of something I shouldn’t have. “With whatever it takes.”

The tension in the air crackles, thick and heavy. He kneels in front of me, his hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. “I’ll protect you, Elena. Always.”

The words should comfort me, but there’s something in his eyes—a shadow, a weight—that makes my chest tighten. “Why do I need protecting, Dmitri?”

He cups my cheek in his hand. “I’d never hurt you.”

“That’s not what I asked. Why’d you tell those men I was your fiancée?”

He sets the statue down on the dresser. “Pretty, isn’t it? 14th century, I believe.”

“You’re an expert?”

“I know a little. Where’d you get it?”

“Posted to me, why?”

“Who from?”

“I’ve no idea. Does that statue mean something to you?”

---