Page 33 of Ruthless Bratva King

His touch is warm, firm yet gentle, and his thumb brushes along my jawline, sending sparks skittering down my spine.

His lips crash into mine with a raw, unrestrained passion that steals the air from my lungs. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s fire and hunger and desperation.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me in place as he deepens the kiss.

I grip his shoulders, my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his suit jacket, as if I might fall.

The taste of him is intoxicating—dark and dangerous, like everything about him.

He kisses like a man starved, each movement of his lips and tongue claiming me in a way that leaves no room for doubt: I belong to him now.

But just as the kiss threatens to consume us both, he pulls back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against mine.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “This is the marriage contract,” he says, holding it out to me.

I take it with shaking hands, my eyes flicking over the dense lines of legal text.

“It’s simple,” he continues. “It makes our marriage official. No need for a ceremony or any of that bullshit. You’ll have my name, my protection, my resources. When this is over, we’ll part ways. But until then…” He trails off, his gaze heavy with meaning.

I look up at him, my fingers tightening around the paper. “And if I don’t sign it?”

“Then nothing changes. I’ll still protect you. But it’ll be far more dangerous.”

The weight of his words settles over me. I can’t let him get hurt trying to keep me safe.

This is insane.Am I really agreeing to this?

I unfold the paper, pick up the pen he offers, and without a moment’s hesitation, scrawl my name at the bottom.

When I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. He takes my hand, sliding the cool platinum of the ring onto my finger.

“You’re mine now,” he says, his voice low and possessive.

“Yours,” I echo softly, the word feeling strangely right on my tongue.

25

ELENA

Dmitri presses the button for the lobby, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as we step into the elevator. The warmth of his touch makes me feel secure, even as a thousand questions swirl in my mind about what lies ahead.

The doors slide shut with a soft chime, and for a moment, the world feels contained within the sleek metal walls.

I glance up at him, his profile sharp and perfect under the fluorescent lights, and can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask, breaking the silence.

He glances down at me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “What you look like out of that dress.”

The elevator slows, a soft ding announcing that someone else is about to join us. The doors slide open, and a man steps inside.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a leather jacket that has seen better days. His dark eyes flick over us briefly before settling on the buttons for the floors. He doesn’t press any.

Immediately, the atmosphere shifts.

Dmitri straightens, his body language going from casual to alert in an instant. His hand drops from my back, his posture stiffening.

Though his expression remains calm, his jaw tightens, and there’s a dangerous edge to the way his eyes track the man’s every move. His knuckles crack by his sides as he tenses his fingers.

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