Page 58 of Used Bratva Bride

I grin. “I know.”

She turns on her heel, muttering something under her breath as she storms toward the door. I don’t stop her.

Just before she steps out, I call after her. “Julie.”

She pauses, her shoulders tense.

I lower my voice, letting it drop into something softer, something almost intimate. “I meant what I said,” I murmur. “Roam. Breathe. Take what I’ve given you.”

She turns her head just slightly, not enough to look at me, but enough to let me know she’s listening.

I smirk. “Don’t mistake it for freedom.”

She exhales, a shuddering breath, then walks out without another word.

I watch her go, her posture rigid, her fists clenched at her sides. Even with her back to me, I can feel her frustration, her barely restrained anger.

It amuses me.

Julie is learning. She’s adapting. She may still fight me, still push, but she’s beginning to understand her place here. While she may not admit it yet, she’s also beginning to accept it.

That knowledge settles deep in my chest, a quiet satisfaction curling there.

I take a slow breath, running a hand down my jaw as I turn back to my plate. The quiche sits there, cooling, forgotten in the aftermath of our exchange. I pick up my fork, take another bite, chewing thoughtfully.

Still good. I smirk to myself, shaking my head before setting the fork down again.

Julie Spade is a puzzle I didn’t expect to enjoy solving.

Chapter Fifteen - Mikhail

I lean against the doorway of the living room, glancing at my watch for the third time in as many minutes.

Julie is late.

The maid had assured me she would be ready soon, but I know better than to put too much faith in assurances. Women had a habit of making a man wait, and Julie—despite her circumstances—was no exception.

The annual Bratva gathering was not an event to be late for. This wasn’t just a social affair; it was a demonstration of strength, power, and unity. Every man in that room would be watching me, analyzing my choices, my control. Tonight, for the first time, they would be watching her too.

I roll my shoulders, forcing away the impatience gnawing at me. I tell myself it’s the event I care about, the necessity of punctuality, the expectation of dominance.

That would be a lie. A part of me—one I refused to acknowledge—was more focused on seeing her than anything else.

The sharp click of a door opening pulls me from my thoughts.

Julie steps out, and I forget everything else. I straighten unconsciously, my eyes locking on to her before I can stop myself.

The black dress clings to her curves in all the right places, elegant and striking, yet daring enough to make a statement. It drapes over her frame with effortless grace, the material hugging her waist before flowing down, the slit along her thigh teasing just enough skin to make a man look twice.

Her hair cascades over her shoulders, soft and shining, a contrast to the defiant look in her eyes.

She’s stunning. For a rare moment, I have no words. I keep my expression composed, offering only a curt nod. “Not bad.”

Her brow furrows slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. I know that look. She’s irritated. She wanted a reaction, something more than indifference. Maybe she deserves it.

***

The gathering is a spectacle of power, the kind of event where alliances are forged and tested in the space between words. The air hums with low conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional sharp laughter of men who have never had to fear anyone but each other.

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