Page 42 of Used Bratva Bride

There’s also the horrible fact that despite everything—despite him being my captor, my enemy—I want him. The thought disgusts me, and yet, it thrills me in equal measure.

With that, the door swings open.

I jolt upright, breath catching in my throat as Mikhail strides in.

His presence is like a sudden storm—silent, looming, impossible to ignore. The moment his eyes land on the wedding dress, something in them flickers. Displeasure.

“The dress is beautiful,” he mutters, voice low and sharp.

I swallow hard. “The maid brought it to me.”

His jaw clenches. The air between us shifts, the tension thick enough to strangle. “You weren’t supposed to see the dress until you’ve had some time to settle into the idea. I wanted it to be a nice surprise.”

A chill runs through me at the way he says it. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous. As if all I need is time, and everything will be okay.

My stomach knots. “She—she didn’t mean anything by it.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “She was just doing her job.”

His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Now she won’t be doing it anymore.”

Dread coils in my gut.

I open my mouth to protest, but his attention shifts to the dress. His fingers brush the delicate fabric, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he’s quiet. Then—

“I should have been the one to show you.”

A shiver laces through me.

There’s something possessive in the way he says it, something dark and heavy. I know what he means. He wanted to see my face when I realized I was his.

My heart hammers. “Why are you doing this?”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Because you belong to me now.”

Before I can respond, he moves.

One second, I’m standing still, locked in place by the weight of his words. The next, he’s on me, his hand curling around my jaw as his mouth crashes against mine.

A startled gasp escapes me, but I don’t pull away. I should. I don’t. Instead, my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, clinging.

He tastes like whiskey and sin, and the force of his kiss is overwhelming—hungry, demanding, owning.

His tongue slides against mine, and my knees buckle. I hate him. I want him. I don’t know where one feeling ends and the other begins.

All I know is that when he bites down on my lower lip, dragging a rough groan from deep in his throat, I melt.

He pulls back slightly, his breath hot against my swollen lips. “You’ll look beautiful in that dress,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my jaw.

I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m too caught in the fire he’s just ignited.

His thumb presses against my jaw, tilting my face up to his. I barely have a second to catch my breath before his lips crash into mine again, harder this time, more deliberate. There’s nothing soft about the way he kisses me—it’s all hunger, dominance, control. His teeth graze my lower lip before he bites down, sharp enough that I whimper into his mouth.

I feel it instantly—the sting, the way my lip throbs in response. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

My fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, holding on to him, though I don’t know if I’m trying to push him away or pull him closer. My body betrays me, heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse hammering at my throat. The worst part is, I know he notices.

Mikhail lets out a low, satisfied hum, his tongue flicking against the bruise he’s left behind. “You taste even sweeter when you’re desperate,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something dark, something taunting.

I hate how much those words affect me.

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