Page 39 of Used Bratva Bride

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Get out,” she whispers, barely audible.

I grin. “That’s not how this works, sweetheart.”

Her body trembles. Not just in fear. Her gaze darts away, as if she’s struggling to meet my eyes.

Interesting. Very, very interesting.

I lean in slightly, just enough to watch her breath hitch again, to feel the tension radiating off her.

“I came to deliver some news,” I murmur, letting my gaze flicker over her once more before meeting her eyes again. “You and I, Julie—we’re getting married.”

Her breath catches. The color drains from her face. Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.

It’s beautiful, watching the horror settle in. She knows she’s trapped. As she stares at me, as realization slowly washes over her, her eyes shimmer. She looks like she’s about to cry again.

I take a final step back, giving her space, knowing I don’t need to say anything else. The damage is already done.

I turn, stepping toward the door, but not before letting my gaze drop one last time. A slow, lingering look.

Her legs. Her waist. The curve of her hip beneath the towel. When I meet her eyes again, she’s breathless. Flushed. A mess.

I smirk. “Sweet dreams, Julie.”

Then I shut the door behind me.

My pulse is steady. My breathing controlled. My face—calm, unreadable. My body? My body betrays me.

The second I saw her, dripping wet, barely covered in that towel, something shifted. Something tightened. I felt it deep in my core—the heat, the hunger, the sharp and immediate want. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt something that strong.

Julie.

Standing there, flushed from the shower, hair damp and wild over her bare shoulders, the curve of her hips barely concealed by that thin excuse for fabric.

I can still see it; the way water clung to her skin, catching the dim light. The way the steam from her shower left her glowing, her cheeks pink, her breath coming too fast.

The way her hands clenched that towel so desperately, as if she thought she could actually hide from me. She couldn’t. She never could.

That image—it’s burned into my mind, refusing to let go, refusing to fade.

I press my back against her door, lingering for a moment longer, listening. Silence. She’s not crying. She’s not screaming at me through the door, throwing something, demanding I stay away.

Maybe she’s too stunned. Or maybe—she knows I’m still here. The thought makes something dark twist inside me.

I close my eyes, jaw tightening. Fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. She’s leverage. A means to an end.

Right now, I can’t seem to get past the fact that she is also a woman—a beautiful, infuriating woman whose body is now burned into my brain, and my cock twitches in response.

I push off the door, inhaling deeply as I start walking. My steps are slow, measured, but my thoughts remain tangled in the memory of her body.

I should go to my office. There’s work to be done, men to keep in line, a war to prepare for.

Instead, at the last second, I veer toward the stairs. To my bedroom.

I never change course on impulse. I don’t let distractions—especially not a woman—get in the way of my goals.

Right now, the only thing in my head is the way she looked at me. The way her breath caught. She knew I was looking. She felt it. The tension, the heat. The knowledge that she’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet. I grip the railing, my fingers pressing into the wood as I climb the stairs.

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