Page 62 of Used Bratva Bride

Julie stiffens for a split second, and then something shifts. She melts into it.

Her hands move instinctively to my chest, fingers gripping the fabric of my jacket. The taste of her is addictive—soft, sweet, hesitant but not unwilling.

I deepen the kiss, letting my tongue tease against hers, coaxing, demanding. Her breath is shaky, her body pressing against mine despite herself. I feel it—the moment where resistance bleeds into surrender.

When I finally pull back, her lips are slightly swollen, her breathing uneven.

I smirk, pleased. Her fingers tremble where they still rest against my chest.

“I’m proud of you,” I murmur, brushing a thumb over her bottom lip.

Julie blinks, confused. “What?”

My gaze flickers over her, lingering on the way she’s still leaning into me, even if she doesn’t realize it. “You held your own tonight. You didn’t let Denis get to you.”

She studies me carefully, still catching her breath. “You enjoyed that?”

“I enjoy a sharp tongue,” I admit, dragging my fingers down her arm, reveling in the way her skin pebbles under my touch. “You have one.”

Her cheeks flush, and I can’t tell if it’s from the compliment or the heat still simmering between us.

Julie looks away, exhaling softly. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

I grin. “That’s the fun part, printsessa. Figuring it out.”

I kiss her again, this time slower, savoring the way she shivers beneath me.

She might not know what I want.

Chapter Sixteen - Julie

The night stretches on, an endless blur of sharp glances, hushed whispers, and glasses of expensive champagne that do nothing to ease the tension coiling in my stomach.

The Sharov women—elegant, poised, and effortlessly intimidating—watch me like a pack of wolves, their expressions neutral on the surface but brimming with disdain just beneath. Their eyes rake over me with scrutiny, assessing, measuring, waiting for me to slip up, to fail.

I keep my posture straight, my chin lifted just enough to appear composed, but I feel it—how out of place I am, how much they resent my presence. To them, I am an outsider, a Spade, a woman whose only worth is whatever political leverage my marriage to Mikhail brings.

My polite smiles grow tighter with every forced conversation, every hollow pleasantry exchanged over glittering glasses and suffocating perfume. I nod at the right moments, laugh when I’m supposed to, but the effort is draining.

Eventually, I slip away.

The grand hall is vast, its golden chandeliers casting an opulent glow over the extravagant event, but I search for the quiet, the untouched corners where the noise doesn’t press so heavily against my skull.

I find one near a towering marble column, away from the clusters of guests engaged in their power plays and whispered politics. My fingers tighten around the stem of my half-empty champagne flute as I exhale slowly, trying to loosen the knot of tension wound tight in my chest.

I shouldn’t let them get to me. I knew this would happen. Still, the weight of it settles uncomfortably in my bones. I glance around the room, searching for familiar faces, for him.

Mikhail. It’s ridiculous how my eyes find him so quickly.

He stands at the far end of the hall, deep in conversation with a group of men who radiate the same quiet menace he does. He’s completely at ease, one hand in his pocket, the other swirling the dark liquid in his glass with casual indifference.

He looks good. Unfairly so. The tailored black suit fits him perfectly, the crisp white shirt beneath it a stark contrast to his dark features. His hair, always kept just slightly tousled, makes him look effortlessly powerful. Every movement, every slight shift of his expression, exudes control.

Yet, as if sensing my gaze, his sharp eyes flick up—directly to me. My breath catches. For a moment, I forget where I am.

Then his lips curve into a knowing smirk, like he knows exactly what’s running through my mind.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I quickly look away, focusing on the cool press of the champagne glass against my palm.

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