Page 35 of Ruthless Bratva King

The elevator dings again thirty seconds later, and the doors slide open.

Dmitri steps out, his movements smooth and unhurried, as if nothing unusual just transpired. Except there’s a fresh graze on his cheek, beading with blood, and his shirt is slightly rumpled.

Behind him, the man who entered the elevator lies crumpled on the floor, not moving.

My stomach twists. “What did you do?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he closes the distance between us in one stride, his presence overwhelming. He takes my face in his hands, his palms rough but his touch surprisingly gentle.

His lips crash onto mine. The kiss is all-consuming, a raw force of nature that leaves me breathless. It’s not soft or careful—this is possession.

He holds me as if I might slip away, his hands firm on my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.

My mind races, half protesting, half surrendering. I want to pull away, to demand answers, but my body has other ideas. Heat floods my skin as my hands find their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt.

He deepens the kiss, tilting my head back to take control completely. His dominance is magnetic, intoxicating, and I can’t help but respond, my lips parting as he claims me.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is heavy, his forehead resting against mine.

“You’re mine, Elena,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly promise. “No one will hurt you now.”

I should push him away. I should demand to know what just happened in that elevator. But instead, I whisper, “You can’t just kiss me to avoid my questions.”

A groan cuts through the tension, freezing us both.

The sound comes from behind Dmitri, in the elevator. My eyes widen as the man, crumpled moments ago, stirs and moves. Before I can process it, his hand is reaching into his jacket, pulling out a silenced pistol.

“Dmitri—!” I barely manage to get his name out before he’s already reacted.

He shoves me behind him with a force that almost knocks me off balance. I stumble back, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of my chest.

The thud of the silenced gunshot tears through the hallway, a sharp, metallic whine following as the bullet ricochets off the elevator frame.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. My ears ring, and the world seems to slow down as adrenaline floods my system.

But Dmitri is already moving fast as lightning.

Before the man can fire again, Dmitri lunges, his body a blur of precision and raw power.

He moves faster than I can process. One moment, the stranger is aiming, and the next, Dmitri’s hand shoots out like a viper.

He grabs the man’s wrist, twisting it with a precision that seems almost mechanical.

A sharp, sickening pop fills the air, and the gun slips from the man’s grip, clattering to the floor. The sound feels distant, muffled by the rushing in my ears.

The man reacts on instinct, throwing a wild punch with his free hand, but Dmitri ducks effortlessly, his movements controlled and lethal.

His other hand lashes out, catching the man by the throat. I can see the sheer strength in his grip, the tendons in his forearm flexing as he lifts the man into the air.

There’s a brief, violent struggle—a desperate scramble of limbs as the man tries to free himself. He claws at Dmitri’s wrist, his feet stumbling for purchase on the smooth marble floor, but it’s useless.

Dmitri jerks him closer, slamming him into the mirrored elevator door with a resounding crash. The impact shatters the stranger’s composure—and maybe a few ribs. He gasps, a guttural, choking sound, but Dmitri doesn’t hesitate.

I watch, unable to look away, as Dmitri’s hand shifts. His grip tightens on the man’s neck, and with one decisive motion, he twists sharply.

There’s a crack—so loud, so final—and the man goes limp in his hands. His lifeless body collapses to the floor in a heavy, unceremonious heap.

I can’t breathe. My gaze locks on Dmitri, who stands over the corpse like a statue carved from granite, his chest rising and falling steadily.

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