Page 23 of Captivated By the Bratva

She growled, and like a feral animal, she resisted my hold more. Clawing at my fingers. Digging her heels in to the path. Wrenching her arm to the side. “No,” she protested over and over. First, she fought with anger, her teeth bared and lips curled in disdain. Then she surrendered to desperation, frantic and begging, pleading with me.

“Don’t. Don’t take me to Mr. Avilov. Please!”

All the while, I forced her to return to the lot. Her rental car was likely gone. Those thugs had taken her purse, and I bet the keys were in it. It wasn’t an issue. My rental would be dry, waiting for me.

“You can’t do this,” she shouted.

“Watch me.”

“Don’t. You don’t—You don’t understand!” She anted up her resistance, swiping her leg out to knock me down. I predicted the move based on how she stood, and instead of dropping to the muddy path, I moved forward and picked her up.

Twisting off the path, I shoved her up against a tree and pinned her there. With my fingers wrapped around her neck, squeezing but not preventing her from breathing, I jammed my leg between hers and shoved her to the bark. Sandwiched betweenmy body and the trunk, she was held in place. Beneath the fronds overhead, we were spared the worst of the deluge.

She was soaked. I was too. Our clothes clung to us, and as she sucked in quick breaths, panic clear in her eyes again, I got distracted with how her shirt stuck to her like a second skin. Her tits were made for worshiping. Generous and real. But it was the ink that got to me. Under the transparency of her wet, white shirt, her tattoos stood out with more contrast.

I lost common sense. I ignored the warnings in my head. Against my better judgment, I lowered my gaze to her parted lips, wishing I could steal a kiss.

“You don’t understand,” she repeated, stubborn to argue regardless of how I had her trapped.

“I understand perfectly. You don’t want to marry your groom. But it’s been arranged, and it must be done.”

She shook her head the best she could with my fingers wrapped around her neck. “No. I didn’t arrange it. My dad did, and I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“Tough shit.”

“I can’t marry him. Mr. Avilov isn’t…” She whined. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Not my problem. I was ordered to bring you home, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

She glowered at me. “My dad sent you?”

“The Pakhan of the Valkov Bratva sent me.” I explained it as dryly and directly as I could, counting on her to understand the significance. She wasn’t naïve. She had to be aware of Bratva andMafia dynamics if she was informed of whom she had to marry and why.

Instead of widening her eyes in surprise or shock, like I figured she might, she smirked. “Fuck. He asked you guys for help to bring me home? That’s just fucking…Fuck.”

“Doyouunderstand now?” I demanded. Touching her and witnessing her fight back so boldly like this… Dammit. I wanted her so bad. The buildup of desire was getting to me. This push and pull of undeniable attraction was heating up too hot.

“I don’t care. I refuse to marry him.”

I shrugged, leaning in closer to whisper in her ear. I’d done it in London, at that bar, and I enjoyed the thrill of being so close. Here, I tormented myself with the temptation again, just to fuck with her. “But Iwillbring you back and deliver you to him.”

Trembling in my hold, she turned her head slightly to face me. This close, our breaths mingled. And still, she didn’t back down, staring at me with such sensual malice.

“Are you going to try to hold me hostage?” she taunted. “Keep me and shackle me to you until you can hand me over to a man who will rape and torture me?”

Dammit. She had to word it like that. I didn’t want to think about that part. It was simply the way things worked in this world. An arranged marriage was a common occurrence, and I wasn’t the man to stand up and protest to the tradition of it.

“I have my orders.”And I will not fail this job.

“Fuck your orders,” she sneered. “And fuck y?—”

I closed the distance between us. Smashing my lips to hers, I stole her breath. I silenced her sassy words. And I tasted the pure perfection of this spitfire of a woman.

A groan left her, rumbling into me. First, she gasped in surprise. I’d caught her off-guard, but as I ground my whole body against hers, shoving her to the tree, she fell prey to my control. My need.

She wasn’t mine to kiss. And I wasn’t hers to try to sass around. Together, though, caught up in this tense moment of arguing while the skies poured down on us and rain pummeled the canopy overhead, we burned in unison.

The first touch of her mouth against mine was addicting. So soft, warm, and sweet. But the second brush over her lips propelled me to want more. And more. I slipped my tongue into her mouth and explored with a demand to open up and submit to me.

---