Page 43 of Ruthless Bratva King

My heart thunders in my chest as I turn away from him, exposing my back to his gaze. The air feels charged, every nerve in my body acutely aware of his presence.

He doesn’t move immediately, and the silence stretches, thick and taut.

I feel him behind me before I hear him—his warmth radiating across the inches that separate us.

The faintest shift of fabric announces his step closer, and then his hands are on my shoulders.

His touch is lighter than I expect, his fingers grazing my skin like a whisper, but there’s an undeniable firmness beneath it. A shiver ripples through me.

Slowly, his fingers curl around the delicate straps of my dress. He doesn’t rush, his movements precise, deliberate, as if testing my resolve.

The straps slide down my arms, inch by inch, the fabric gliding against my skin with a soft, almost imperceptible sound.

My breathing quickens as the dress falls lower, pooling around my waist like liquid silk.

The cool air kisses my bare shoulders, heat radiating from his hands. I gasp softly, the sound breaking the stillness, and I feel his touch shift, his fingertips grazing down the curve of my back.

They move with an unhurried confidence, pausing briefly before finding the clasp of my bra. A deft flick with practiced ease—and the tension holding it in place dissolves.

Time slows as the garment slides from my body, slipping down my arms before falling soundlessly to the floor.

I’m acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin, every beat of my racing heart, every sharp inhale and exhale that seems too loud in the silence.

My hands twitch instinctively, longing to shield myself, but I hesitate, frozen under his gaze.

Gently but firmly, he turns me to face him, and my eyes dart everywhere but his. Vulnerability prickles across my skin, a flush creeping up my chest and neck.

My arms move on their own, an instinctive shield against the sudden exposure, but before they can rise fully, he catches them.

The intensity in his gaze pins me in place, and I feel utterly bare—not just in body but in spirit. The air thickens between us, every second stretched to infinity as I stand there, caught in his grip.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over my body with undisguised hunger. “You’re beautiful, Elena. You’ve nothing to hide.”

His words hit me like a punch to the chest.Beautiful.No one has ever called me that in my life apart from Veronica. Not like this. Not with such conviction. I feel heat rise to my cheeks, but I don’t look away.

He steps closer, his hands sliding down my sides to rest on my hips. His thumbs hook into the waistband of my panties, andhe pulls them down, letting them join the growing pile of clothes at my feet.

Now I’m completely exposed, vulnerable in a way that terrifies and excites me. He steps back, his eyes drinking me in, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us. Just this.

“Kneel,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

My knees hit the rug without hesitation. I look up at him, my breath shallow, my pulse racing. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and something inside me melts.

As he tosses the shirt aside, I can’t help but let my eyes linger on the intricate ink that covers him. Each tattoo seems deliberate, placed with purpose. The scars cutting through some of the designs only add to the story his body tells.

“What do they mean? I ask softly, my voice trailing off as I reach out, hesitant.

He pauses, his eyes meeting mine, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Then he steps closer, taking my hand in his and guiding it to his chest. His skin is warm, solid, alive beneath my touch.

“This one,” he says, pointing to a wolf inked over his heart, its sharp eyes staring out fiercely, “represents loyalty and survival. In Russian folklore, the wolf is a protector, but it’s also a hunter.”

I notice words written in Russian, inked in bold, precise letters above the wolf tattoo. They’re stark against his skin, ominous and commanding.

“What does it say?” I ask, my fingers hovering just above the text.

He hesitates, his eyes darkening, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then his voice drops, deep and unyielding, like the echo of a thunderstorm. “It says, ‘Ten', kotoruyu boyatsya dazhe monstry.’”

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