Page 7 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

He hums low in his throat, like he doesn’t believe me. “No? I’d say you are. You just don’t know what for yet.”

Heat floods my cheeks. I set my fork down too hard. “You don’t know me.”

“I will.”

He leans forward slightly, and something in the air pulls tighter, like a thread between us that’s straining with each breath.

“I’m not going to force you into anything, Clara,” he says. “But I’ll make you want it. I’ll make you wantme.”

I want to laugh. Or scream. Or throw my wine in his face. But the glass stays in my hand, and the breath I take shudders too much to let anything sharp out.

The worst part is, I believe him.

And I don’t know what terrifies me more. What he’s capable of doing to me, or what I might let him do.

Maksim

She came to dinner wearing the exact dress I longed to see on her.

She told herself it was defiance, her own choice. That she was using my rules against me. But she doesn’t know how transparent she is. She chose that dress because some part of her wanted me to look. Towant. To burn for her.

And I did.

I’m still burning now.

I watch her slip down the hallway ahead of me after dinner, her bare shoulders glowing in the soft light, her steps quick but uncertain. She doesn’t know I’m following her, doesn’t realize I dismissed the staff for the night just to have her alone.

When she reaches the gallery, she pauses, fingers skimming the stone windowsill as she exhales slowly. I stay back, letting her feel the pull before I speak.

“You ran from me earlier,” I say.

She turns with a jolt, eyes wide, lips parted. But she doesn’t move away.

“I didn’t—”

“You did. And I let you.”

I take a slow step forward. Her breathing hitches. Her arms cross over her chest like a barrier, but it’s too late. Her bodyalready knows I’m near. I can see it in the flush rising on her throat, the way her chest lifts faster with each breath, the way her nipples have been hard all evening under the thin layer of satin.

“You’re used to locked doors and long hallways. People keeping their distance.” I move closer. “I won’t do that.”

She swallows. I watch her tongue dart out, nervously wetting her lower lip. She’s trembling, just slightly.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, but her voice is breathless.

“No,” I murmur. “But you are afraid of what you feel when I touch you.”

I close the space between us completely, stopping just a breath away. I don’t touch her yet. I wait.

Wait for her to either run again or lean in.

Her head tilts back slowly, lips soft and pink and so close to mine I can feel her breath. I raise my hand, brush her hair off her shoulder, lightly, reverently, and her whole body shudders.

“I dreamed about this,” I whisper against her skin. “Touching you here.”

My fingers trail along the curve of her neck, down over the strap of her dress. It slips from her shoulder. Her breath catches.

“And here.”

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