Page 11 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
"Maybe." He rises with that huge, contained grace that steals air. Not crowding—two steps closer, then still. "But I'm your nightmare."
My pulse trips. "You don't get to call yourself mine."
His jaw flexes. Something flickers behind his eyes—danger held on a leash so tight it squeaks. He tips his head, studies me like I'm a problem he enjoys solving. "Answer me, little one. Truth only. What do you want most?"
I stare at the sheet pooled in my lap like it might form an answer. The lie is right there—license, job, classroom bulletin boards and supply lists—but it shatters on my tongue before it can leave.
"My degree," I say. "A classroom. Students who—"
"Try again."
Heat stings my cheeks. "Financial security. A job that matters—"
"Zara."
The third lie dies before it forms. I swallow, and the truth tastes like copper. "To feel safe."
His jaw flexes. Something flickers behind his eyes—danger held on a leash so tight it squeaks. "You will." The two words settle like a Promise. Capital P. "Not here. Not ever again."
Heat stings behind my eyes. No. Not that. Not tears. Not with him watching. I swallow them down, and they burn all the way.
"What happens next?" I ask. "Do you lock me in? Do I get any choices at all?"
"You get to choose everything that matters," he says. "You'll tell me what you need. I'll listen. I'll give it." A beat. "I'll take care of the rest."
"You mean control it."
"Keep you safe." He doesn't back away from the word. "Call it whatever helps you sleep."
I should tell him off. I should call Amani. Dimitri. The police. Except there's no version of that where anyone can pry me out of a house he owns with a word.
I inhale. Breathing helps. I take another deep breath, and it doesn't scrape as hard. He moves to the window, and the light shines and buffs his high cheekbones and dark, glossy hair. He's composed, contained, and a little too still. We watch each other across a distance neither of us traverses.
The silence breaks as last night comes into focus. "Wissam," the name wings out. "What did you say to him?"
"I told him what was true." His voice drops a notch lower. "What he needed to hear."
"What truth?"
"That you're not for him."
Ire climbs my throat. My reaction is typical.Why am I prepared to go to war for my friends and never for myself?"I told you our relationship was purely platonic."
"I know." The faintest shrug. "He knows now, too."
My voice hardens because if I let it soften, I'll lose ground. "You didn't need to threaten him."
"Trust me. Men understand lines better when they're drawn in ink, not pencil. And it wasn't a threat. I have taken men apart for far less."
"You sound proud of that."
"No." Something tightens at the corner of his mouth. "I sound like what I am."
"What are you?"
His gaze holds. "A man who doesn't allow other men too close to his woman, but also a man who won't let a single hair on your head be put at risk. Ever again."
I press my lips together so I don't say the wrong thing. Or the truest thing. Or the one that would give him too much.
