Page 23 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
He studies my face, voice a rasp. “What if he hurt others? Girls who didn’t have neighbors to come running. Would you still look away?”
I choke. “He’s probably in jail or dead by now.” But curiosity edges past my fear. I whisper, “Would you kill him? If I asked you to?”
His voice goes low. Deadly calm. “If he hurt you? Yes. If he even thought about you? Yes. Because I am that man, Zoya. I can live with the blood of monsters. I will never live with your hurt.”
Something cracks open inside me. I don’t fully believe him, but I want to. God help me, Iwantto.
When he kisses me next, I kiss him like I’ll drown if I don’t. And when he slides inside me this time, it isn’t rough or wild. It’s slow. Reverent. His hand cups my face. His lips whisper my name. It’s the tenderest love I’ve ever known.
The next day I wander the property aimlessly, body loose and dreamy from too many hours in his bed. My legs still ache, tender reminders of him moving inside me.
Sunlight dances across the lawn as I drift toward the water’s edge. That’s when I see it—the smaller house tucked near the lake. Stone and glass. Beautiful in its seclusion. A guest house, maybe.
But the air feels heavy here. Too still.
I climb the short steps, press my hand to the cool brass latch, and push the door open.
Inside it’s dim. Shadows crawl across the tiled floor. The air smells sharp, metallic, wrong.
I step further in.
And then I see him.
Not Nikolai. Not anyone I know.
A man.
Naked, wrists bound in steel above his head, body sagging, face swollen and blood-caked. He hangs limp against the restraints bolted into the wall.
Alive. Barely.
My scream snags in my throat. Soundless.
I stumble back a step, heart pounding, vision spinning.
The sunlight, the sweetness, the laughter of moments ago—gone.
And with it, the fragile illusion I’ve let myself believe. That this house, that this man, could ever belong only to me.
Nikolai
Graham is almost unrecognizable now. His face is a swollen, bloodied mask. Eyes puffed shut, lips split wide enough to show broken teeth. He wheezes wetly when Maxim slams a fist into his ribs again. The sound is sharp in the concrete quiet of the guest house.
“Wake up,” Maxim taunts, shaking out his blood-slicked hand and grinning like a devil. His knuckles are already split and raw, but he doesn’t care. My cousin never does. If anything, the pain sharpens him. He steps back just long enough to pace. Restless energy comes off him like sparks. “Come on, Graham. Don’t pass out yet. You’ll ruin the fun.”
Maxim doesn’t have mercy in him. He was born without it. And it alarms me sometimes how much he enjoys this—how his blood runs hotter the more another man cries. I used to be the same, I wonder grimly. Before Zara. Before her light bled into my edges and taught me restraint.
I crouch near Graham’s sagging head, tilting it up so he has no choice but to breathe against me. His stench is rot and blood. “Confess,” I mutter darkly. “Admit to what you’ve done. Youknow even if Zara wasn’t the first girl, she wouldn’t have been the last. So speak it.”
He just shakes, lips bleeding, throat rattling. His silence condemns him, but to me it isn’t enough.
“Why the fuck does it matter?” Maxim snaps, grabbing Graham by the hair and slamming him back against the concrete wall. His tone is amused, impatient. “He touched your woman. That’s all I need. He dies. End of story. Who cares about anyone else this piece of shit ruined?”
“Zara will,” I answer tightly. My jaw is hard. “If she ever finds out. If she ever sees the blood. I’ll have to prove to her that it was justified. That’s the difference.”
Maxim barks a laugh, low and jagged. “If it were my woman? She wouldn’t get explanations. She’d accept it. Or she wouldn’t. Either way, I wouldn’t give a fuck. Mercy isn’t in my blood, cousin.”
“You’ll feel differently when you have a woman worth losing,” I tell him, measured. “Ask Dimitri.”
