Page 14 of Used Bratva Bride

It doesn’t matter if she’s naive or pretending to be. What matters is what she is now. A bargaining chip. A weakness to exploit. A tool I can shape into something useful.

I glance at Ivan. “Did you see her face when she spoke about her father?”

His brow furrows slightly, then realization clicks into place.

“She’s got resentment,” he mutters.

“Exactly.” I pause in the hall, turning to face him fully. “That kind of anger? It doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s deep, and it’s been festering for a long time.”

Ivan watches me carefully, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “You want to use that.”

I tilt my head slightly, considering. “Maybe.”

I will.

Resentment is a powerful thing. It doesn’t just create cracks in loyalty—it shatters it. Julie Spade may not be her sister, but if I play this right, she won’t need to be. She’ll be mine to use.

Ivan doesn’t question me further. He’s been at my side long enough to know when my mind is already made up.

“I’ll make sure she’s under constant surveillance,” he says. “I’ll check in on the camera installation myself.”

“Good,” I murmur.

Ivan watches me for a beat as I turn back toward the door. He doesn’t ask what I’m doing—he doesn’t need to. He knows me well enough to understand when I’ve decided something.

I push open the door and step inside.

Julie is curled up in the bed, her body small against the vastness of the space, her knees tucked slightly toward her chest. She’s cradling her wounded arm, fingers pressing against the bandage as if she can hold the pain inside and keep it from spreading. Her face is pale, the aftermath of shock settling in, but her jaw is still tight, her lips pressed into a thin line.

She hears me enter, but she doesn’t look up right away. She’s trying to ignore me.

That’s fine.

I cross the room slowly, my steps unhurried. “Your arm needs to be looked at properly.”

She stiffens slightly at my voice but doesn’t respond.

I take another step forward, watching the way her fingers tighten over her injury, nails digging into the bandage. The pain must be unbearable, but she doesn’t complain, doesn’t make a sound.

“You were shot, not grazed,” I continue. “You need stitches. If it gets infected, you’ll be dealing with something a lot worse than just pain.”

Still, she doesn’t answer.

I let the silence stretch between us, watching, waiting. Eventually, she shifts, barely enough to tilt her head up, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion written across her face.

“I don’t want anyone near me,” she says flatly.

I arch a brow. “Tough shit.”

Her glare deepens, her lips parting slightly, like she wants to argue, but she must realize how useless that would be.

“You can’t control everything,” she mutters.

I smirk. “Watch me.”

She exhales sharply, turning her face away, her fingers still curled protectively around her wound.

I watch her for a long moment, taking in every tense line of her posture. I could force her—easily. She’s in no condition to fight me on this. I don’t need to. She’ll come to the same conclusion herself.

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