Page 10 of Marked & Bred By the Bratva
And for some reason… I feel embarrassed.
Not guilty. Not scared. Just weirdly hot in the face. Like I said something I shouldn’t have. Out loud.
Did I talk in my sleep?
God. I hope not.
I roll out of bed, still flushed and dazed, and shuffle toward the kitchen. But when I twist the faucet to fill the kettle nothing happens. Not even a drop.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
I try the bathroom. Same deal.
The pipes groan. Somewhere under the sink, there’s a wet-sounding churn, and then a horrible crack that makes me jump.
Water starts pouring out under the cabinet.
“Oh my God, no, no, no!”
I grab a towel and throw it down, but it’s already spreading. I yank the cabinet open and see the busted pipe, water spurting out like it’s trying to punish me personally. I slam it shut and scramble for my phone to text the building manager.
Still no reply.
Of course.
I pace around for a minute then stop.
My neighbor. The one who lives across the hall. The hot guy who grunts, barely speaks. He looks like the kind of man who could fix anything.
I hesitate for half a second, then grab a hoodie and storm out barefoot. I bang on his door with exactly the kind of desperation you save for earthquakes and spiders.
The door opens so fast it startles me.
And there he is. In a tank top that barely covers his massive chest, and sweatpants that hang low on narrow hips. Impossibly broad shoulders, huge, tattooed arms. Golden skin all over. And a look on his stupidly handsome face like I interrupted something important.
My brain short-circuits.
“Uh,” I mumble.
His dark eyes drag over me, slow and unreadable. “What’s wrong?” His fucking voice is nothing but gravel and pure male essence. And the way he smells… Good God… They should bottle up this thing and sell it.
“Uh… pipe. Water. Under the sink. Um. Sorry.”
He just stares. The heat from his body engulfing me. Making me forget all about my kitchen that’s getting flooded.
Then he steps back, quickly returns with a toolbox, and follows me inside my place.
He doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t ask permission. Just drops to his knees on the kitchen floor, shoves the cabinet open, and starts working.
I stand there useless, watching his huge shoulders flex as he reaches inside. His shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of his back, the thick ridge of muscle along his spine. His biceps tighten when he twists something with the wrench, and my mouth goes dry.
Holy shit.
I fold my arms across my chest and tell myself not to stare.
I stare anyway.
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