Page 51 of Used Bratva Bride

Heat floods my face. My throat dries. I can’t speak, but I don’t have to. I nod.

His smirk deepens, slow and deliberate, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. Something dangerous.

“Of course you are.”

His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my chin up just slightly, forcing me to hold his gaze. The way he looks at me—it’s not cruel. It’s not mocking. It’s possession. He doesn’t touch me further. He doesn’t push.

The weight of his presence is enough to make my body feel like it’s no longer mine.

Mikhail leans in closer, his lips brushing just barely against my ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down my spine. My body is frozen, my mind screaming at me to move, to push him away, to do something—anything—but I can’t.

His voice is a low rasp, filled with dark amusement, laced with something undeniably dangerous. “You’re mine now, and I plan to enjoy every second of taking that innocence from you.”

A gasp catches in my throat. Heat floods my body, traitorous and uncontrollable, a reaction I hate myself for.

I should recoil. I should slap him, spit in his face, do something. My body betrays me, every nerve locked on to him, waiting for what comes next.

I wait for him to kiss me again, for his hands to roam lower, for this moment to spiral into something I can’t stop. My pulse pounds, my breath unsteady.

Then he pulls back. Just enough to watch my reaction. Just enough to let the moment hang between us, heavy with unspoken intent. His smirk is sharp, knowing.

My chest rises and falls too quickly, my breath uneven, my lips parted as I stare at him in disbelief. He’s playing with me. He knows what he’s doing, and worst of all—he’s enjoying it.

He lets a beat of silence stretch between us before speaking again, his tone still low, still possessive. “Not yet.”

His fingers brush my jaw one last time before he stands, straightening as if he hadn’t just whispered those words against my skin, hadn’t left me breathless and disoriented.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

I feel like I should be relieved. He’s giving me time. He’s not taking me tonight. He’s waiting. Deep down, in the partof myself I don’t want to acknowledge, I feel something else entirely.

Disappointment.

I lie there, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breathing uneven as Mikhail turns over, shifting in the bed beside me. His movements are smooth, unhurried, as if none of this has affected him at all. His breathing evens out, slow and steady, as if he’s already fallen into sleep.

Meanwhile, I can’t seem to catch a single breath.

Heat coils deep in my stomach, shameful and undeniable. I shouldn’t feel like this. I shouldn’t. But the memory of his voice, the possessiveness in his tone, lingers inside me like an echo I can’t shake.

“You’re mine now, and I plan to enjoy every second of taking that innocence from you.”

The words play over and over in my head, sending another ripple of warmth down my spine. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it away, but it doesn’t work. My skin feels too hot, the silk sheets against my body an unbearable tease, like a whisper of something more.

I need to cool down.

I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, tiptoeing toward the en suite. The room is dark, but a soft glow from the nightlight illuminates the marble counters, the gold fixtures gleaming under the faint light. The air is cool, a welcome contrast to the heat radiating from my skin.

I twist the faucet, letting the cold water run before cupping my hands beneath the stream. The moment I splash it onto my face, I let out a breath, the shock of it momentarily easing the pressure building inside me.

I grip the edges of the counter, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

My face is flushed, my lips slightly swollen from where he bit down earlier. My hair is a mess, strands falling loose over my shoulders, my nightgown slipping slightly, exposing the delicate curve of my collarbone.

I look… different.

Not like the girl I was before I was forced into this marriage.

Not like a Spade. I look like a woman wanting something. A woman who knows exactly what she’s aching for.

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