Page 70 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“You seemed very occupied last night,ptichka,” I say smoothly. “Or did you think I was the only one losing control?”

She stiffens, that pretty mouth tightening. Her eyes flick away—briefly—before snapping back to mine with more venom than before.

“You didn’t answer the question,” she bites out.

“I didn’t think I needed to.” I step closer, savoring the way her breath catches even as her jaw hardens. “You’ve had your hands all over me. You kissed me first. You looked up at me like youwantedto be owned.”

“That’s not what this is,” she snaps.

“Isn’t it?” My tone drops. “Then why are you so angry?”

She falters. It’s small—but it’s there. A shift in her stance. The truth, surfacing in the crack between fury and something else she won’t name.

“I’m angry because you treat me like a possession,” she hisses. “Then expect gratitude.”

I let that settle. Let the silence breathe, thick and weighted.

Then, “Youaremine. Whether you thank me for it or not.”

The slap doesn’t come—but I see the urge behind her eyes. She’s trembling now, from emotion or restraint, I can’t tell.

She’s burning.

Before either of us can think—before the tension can rot into words neither of us means—our mouths collide.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful.

She pushes. I push back. Her fists press against my chest, nails scraping through my shirt. My hand finds her waist, dragging her hard against me, the other gripping her face with barely restrained force.

She kisses like she fights—wild, desperate, unapologetic. I take and take, our breaths tangled, teeth clashing, tongues slick with fury and something much darker.

Her back slams into the wall, but she doesn’t flinch.

Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling until I groan into her mouth. I trail kisses down her jaw, her throat, biting just enough to feel her gasp.

“Elise,” I growl, half crazed. “You belong to me.”

Her reply is a gasp, a hiss, a whimper.

She arches into me, her hips grinding without thought, her hands sliding under my jacket. The lines between pain and pleasure, hate and hunger, blur so completely I couldn’t find the difference if I tried.

She’s soft and sharp all at once—fragile, but not weak.

I want to destroy her. I want toworshipher.

I press my forehead against hers, trying to catch a breath that won’t come.

“This isn’t about Darya,” I mutter. “It never was; I don’t care about her.”

“Then what is it about?” she breathes.

“You.” That’s all I say; that’s all there is.

She stares at me like she wants to tear me apart—and maybe she will. Maybe I’ll let her.

I kiss her again. Slower. Deeper. She lets me.

She stares at me, lips parted, chest still heaving from the kiss. Her wrists are still in my grip, pinned lightly above her head. I could let go. I should.

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