Page 21 of The Bratva's Sold Bride

Dima started acting like we were on a date, like a real, ordinary couple who was wildly in love, and I was on the verge of going along with it. Worse, I was getting way too close to wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders and climbing up his hard body, right in the middle of the village.

Now, this sudden, earth-shattering kiss. And the look in Dima’s eyes when I shoved away. I was flustered, confused, agonizing for more of his masterful lips on mine, and he seemed just as shaken by the electricity that crackled between us.

I was getting dangerously lost and letting the relief that I wasn’t on the run with my rotten father sway me. After all, it wasn’t like I could stroll away from him and get on the next plane home—a home that no longer existed because I would have rather died than ever see my father again after he sold me off like property.

That’s all I was to Dima, property he thought he could claim whenever he wanted.

And once again I was melting against him, giving as good as I got. And oh my God, I wanted so much more as my back was pressed against the rough brick wall, his hands sliding up and down my waist, his tongue in my mouth. How did I get here, like this, clinging to his shoulders, grabbing at his hair, trying to get closer to him?

And in the middle of this village where we were outsiders, no less.

The first time had been a sneak attack, this second round was all on me. Disgusted with myself, I pushed back and ducked away from him to scurry onto the sidewalk of the main street. Smoothing my dress, I gave him a prim and proper look, knowing he wouldn’t pick a fight surrounded by curious locals, even if they were in his pocket.

“We’re being disrespectful,” I said. Did I actually want him to start a fight, or, worse, drag me back into that alley?

He only laughed and calmly agreed, which kicked my ire into high gear again. This wasn’t anything like a real, normal relationship. This was a freaking roller coaster, and I needed to get off.

The way he could be so stoic and calm when I felt like I was boiling over had been something I used to admire about him, once upon a time. Now, I wished I could make him feel even a fraction of the anger bubbling inside me. Maybe then he’d let me go.

He pointed to a restaurant about a block away and I only shrugged and fell in beside him as he headed that way. The little hole in the wall was already packed when we arrived despite the early hour, but we were quickly shown to a cozy table for two in the back.

Since I’d grown up in Southern California, I’d taken high school Spanish classes, but only a few familiar words jumped out at me from the worn paper menus. I recognized pollo and agua fresca, and that was about it, so I let Dima order for me. When the food arrived, it was golden, crispy chicken in a delicious, dark sauce, with rice and corn on the side. I had to give him a begrudging smile for knowing exactly what I’d like, and he returned it as he held up his beer bottle in a toast.

I wasn’t quite ready to get that friendly, but I couldn’t leave him hanging, so tapped my soda glass against the edge, rolling my eyes as I took a sip. Even though we were surrounded by people, no one spoke English so it felt like it was just us.

“Why did you never tell anyone what your father was really like?” he asked halfway through the meal. “You never even told Brooke?”

I set down my fork, the mere mention of my father making me lose my appetite for what was left on my plate. Shrugging, I glanced up at him to see his brows were furrowed. He seemed upset.

“You didn’t even think you could trust Max?” he asked when I remained silent. I’d been silent about my family situation for so long it was just second nature. “You could have trusted us with something like that. We might have been able to help you.”

“Max is—was my boss,” I said. “I’d never bother him with my personal problems. And having the job was already a huge help. Once we moved to San Diego, I considered myself out of it. And I don’t like when people feel sorry for me.”

He gave me a long, hard look. “I don’t feel sorry for you. Maybe pissed off on your behalf.”

“You’re certainly the hero of this story, aren’t you,” I said bitterly, then I slumped. “I really don’t understand what you’re getting out of this.”

His eyes never left mine, and I couldn’t look away. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he told me. “I couldn’t exactly make a move while you were working for Max, could I? But when you lit out like the devil was on your trail, I thought it might be too late, so of course I jumped into action.”

He didn’t look like he wanted any high praise for this, which was good, because he wasn’t about to get it. “Why, though?” I asked, still not understanding. Did he want me to be grateful? To a certain extent, maybe. But not that damn much. “Why?” I repeated.

After a slow blink, a corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that had me remembering his kisses. “Because you’re mine,” he said. “And nobody takes what’s mine.”

The shock of those words in his deep, husky growl had a ripple coursing through me that was hard to ignore. But I was still so pissed I managed it somehow. I was not a possession he could do whatever he wanted with, force me into a marriage I was against, kiss me whenever he pleased… although I didn’t seem to mind that. Liked it way too much, in fact.

Before I could erupt in a rage and stalk out before dessert, Dima suddenly turned tender, his voice low and soft as he asked me how bad things had been.

Once again, I shrugged. “When my mother was alive it wasn’t bad at all. The last four years are another story.”

“Tell me if you want,” he said.

For some reason, I found that I did. I needed to get it off my chest and expunge it from my life. “I don’t think he wantedkids at all, and it was doubly bad that I was a useless girl. He always called me useless, even when Mama was still alive, just when she wasn’t around.”

“He’s an idiot,” Dima rumbled. “You know you aren’t useless.”

“Sure,” I said. “But it still hurts to hear it from your own father. The slaps started shortly after Mama was gone, then those turned to punches if he was really drunk. He locked me out if I came home past eight o’clock, so I got used to sleeping in the shed out back.”

“Fucking hell,” he said, his eyes flaring with anger.

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