Page 40 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

He inclines his head slightly. “You’ll be safe here.”

I laugh humorlessly, shaking my head. “Safe? Yeah, okay.”

His expression hardens, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features. “This is what it means to be my wife, Hannah.”

“I didn’t choose this,” I snap, my voice rising. “You forced me into this. Into you.”

His jaw tightens, and he takes a step closer. “You think I had a choice?” he asks sharply. “This wasn’t about you, or me. This is about the child. About honor.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” I fire back, my chest heaving as my anger rises. “You don’t get to control me, no matter what name I carry now.”

“You’re my wife,” he growls, stepping closer again, his height and presence overshadowing me.

“I hate you for it,” I spit, though my voice trembles.

The tension snaps like a taut string. His hands move before I can react, gripping my arms firmly but not painfully as he pulls me closer.

“Careful,” he says lowly, his voice laced with warning. “I can tolerate many things, but not disrespect in my own home.”

I glare up at him, refusing to be cowed despite the way his presence invades every inch of my space. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have married someone you didn’t respect either,” I shoot back, the words tumbling out before I can think them through.

His eyes darken, the line of his jaw tightening, and for a moment, I think he’ll step away. But instead, he moves closer, his grip shifting to my waist, firm but unyielding.

“Disrespect,” he murmurs, his tone quieter now but no less intense. “You think I don’t see you, Hannah? That I don’t know exactly what you are?”

The heat in his gaze sends a shiver down my spine, but I lift my chin defiantly. “What am I, then?”

His lips curve into the faintest smirk, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re fire,” he says, his voice low, dangerous. “Reckless. Defiant. Exactly what I need.”

The air between us shifts, charged with something electric and undeniable. I should push him away, fight against the way his words sink under my skin, but I can’t.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, though the words come out weaker than I intend.

His hand moves, brushing a strand of hair from my face, the touch unexpectedly gentle. “Don’t I?” he murmurs, his gaze locking on to mine.

The tension crackles like a live wire, and before I can second-guess it, he leans in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the cold obligation of the ceremony. It’s fierce, demanding, and all-consuming, his hands tightening on my waist as he pulls me flush against him.

I freeze for a moment, torn between resistance and the way my body betrays me, heat pooling low in my stomach as I return the kiss, gasping against his lips.

Our frustrations, our anger, it all boils over into something raw and consuming. His hand moves to the small of my back, his grip possessive but not rough as he deepens the kiss. My fingers curl into the fabric of his suit jacket, the closeness suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

When we finally break apart, my breath comes in short, ragged gasps, my heart hammering against my rib cage. His forehead rests lightly against mine, his own breathing uneven.

His breath is hot against my lips, and before I can say anything—before I can catch my breath—his mouth is on mineagain. This kiss is rougher, more commanding, like he’s laying claim to every part of me I’ve tried to keep hidden. His hands slide up my back, firm and possessive, pulling me closer until there’s no space between us, no room to breathe.

I want to tell him no, to push him away, but the words don’t come. Instead, a traitorous heat pools in my stomach, spreading through me like fire. My body betrays me, responding to him despite the chaos swirling in my mind.

His hands move to my veil, fingers deftly unpinning it and tossing it aside. My hair tumbles down, and his hands immediately dive into the strands, tilting my head back as his lips trail down the line of my jaw, searing every inch of skin they touch.

I should stop this. I should push him away, scream at him,something.Instead, my hands clutch at the fabric of his suit jacket, holding on to him as though he’s the only solid thing in the room.

I can feel something hard prod against my thigh, and a shiver of arousal runs through me. His cock twitches, and my mouth goes dry.

“Makar,” I whisper, my voice trembling, though I don’t know if it’s from anger or something far more dangerous.

He pulls back slightly, his blue eyes burning as they meet mine. “Say it again,” he commands, his voice low and rough.

I swallow hard, my breathing uneven. “Makar,” I repeat, and the way his name leaves my lips feels like surrender.

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