Page 79 of Used Bratva Bride

I barely have time to breathe before he quickens his pace. The weight of him presses me against the wall, his cock spreading me so wide, I can hardly feel my legs.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing, hmm?” His voice is low, taunting, but there’s something else there too—something rougher, more genuine.

“Trying to control me.”

I shiver. “Is it working?”

His movements still, and when he pulls back, his piercing dark eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering beneath their depths. “No one controls me,” he says, his tone soft but firm. Then his lips curl into a knowing smirk. “No one but you. You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

A sharp inhale catches in my throat.

His.

Not as a possession, not as something to own—but as something claimed. As something wanted.

It’s different from the other times he’s taunted me, pushed me, taken from me. There’s no arrogance in his words now, no mocking lilt to his voice. Just raw, unfiltered truth.

I should reject it. I should push him away, spit some sharp remark that keeps the distance between us. I don’t. I can’t.

Mikhail must see it, must feel it, because the teasing edge fades from his expression, replaced by something heavier, something real.

Then he thrusts again, seated deep inside of me, and I come undone. My thighs clench around his as I gasp, heat rolling off me, my walls clamping down on his gorgeous cock. I come so hard I see stars, my eyes scrunched closed as I heave in great big breaths.

There’s a second where the world seems to still. Then, Mikhail grunts out my name, his grip viselike. He floods me full of his hot, heavy seed; I feel it, heavy, dripping down my legs as he half pulls out.

His jaw tenses, his fingers flexing against my hip, but doesn’t pull out fully.

I part my lips to say something—to tease, to defy, to do something—but before I can, Mikhail captures my mouth in another kiss, hungrier, rougher than before.

Just like that, I’m lost again.

Chapter Twenty-One - Mikhail

The Bratva headquarters is alive with tension. Men come and go, voices hushed yet urgent, the air thick with the scent of cigars and aged whiskey. Papers shuffle, deals are made, but I hear none of it. My focus is sharp, locked on the man standing before me—one of my best informants, Vasily.

His face is drawn, his usual cool confidence absent. That alone tells me whatever he’s about to say is serious.

“Say it again,” I order, my tone deceptively calm.

Vasily shifts on his feet but doesn’t falter. “Denis. It was Denis who orchestrated Valeri’s murder.”

For a moment, the words don’t register. Then they slam into me like a bullet to the chest. I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just sit back in my chair, gripping the edge of the armrest with enough force to crack the leather.

“Explain,” I bite out.

Vasily exhales, nodding to Ivan, who steps forward and tosses a thick folder onto my desk. It lands with a heavy thud, the weight of its contents almost mocking.

I flip it open.

Inside, photos, financial transactions, and phone records spill out. The evidence is clear—too clear. Bank statements showing large, unexplained withdrawals from Bratva accounts. Surveillance images of Denis meeting with outside men, some of them knownzaslantsy—traitors to our organization. Reports of whispers exchanged in dark corners, of plans set in motion.

And then, the final blow, a grainy image of Denis himself, shaking hands with an outsider mere hours before Valeri was executed.

My blood runs cold. Betrayal. A word I’ve known all my life. A word that defined my father, a word that I swore I’d never let taint my legacy. Yet here it is, within my own ranks. From family.

The realization settles like lead in my stomach, an acidic burn crawling up my throat. Denis—the man who strutted around Valeri’s funeral, pretending to grieve. The man who smirked at me during the Bratva gathering, taunting me for marrying Julie. The man who had stood in the shadows, watching, waiting—

All this time, he was the one responsible.

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