Page 14 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
That rattles her. Tiny flicker in her eyes. She hides behind a curl of hair tucked behind her ear, but I see the shiver drag through her.
One step forward, slow. Not crowding yet—but enough that she feels pulled toward me by gravity she doesn’t want to admit exists. Her lashes lower. A scoff. “I didn’t put this on for you.”
“Good,” I say flatly. “I wanted you to enjoy wearing it as much as I enjoy seeing you in it. The things I do for us are never just for my enjoyment. I want you, Zara. But I want you happy.”
Her throat bobs. She doesn’t retreat. That’s all I need. Consent is in the fact that she hasn’t run, even now. I tilt my head toward the open doors of the conservatory. “Come.” A command, not a suggestion.
Her steps behind me are careful, reluctant, but sure. She hates herself for following. But she follows. The conservatory opens to light and glass. White roses perfume the space. The table’s set—linen crisp, fruit cut sharp, silver gleaming. Civilization disguising hunger.
Her breath catches when she sees. “This is your idea of a date?”
“No,” I answer, pulling out her chair. “This is our life. Right now, it’s me thinking of anything I can do to make you happy. Eventually, we’ll get to where you tell me what you need, and I break my balls to get it.”
“Like Dimitri and Amani?” She gives a half-grin when she says it. I respond with my own half-grin. Because everyone knows how completely he’s wrapped around her finger. I should resent the comparison, but how can I, when it’s true?
It’s a moment of lightness, where she’s forgotten the situation and we’re talking naturally as if we’re still in the coffee shop.I’d give half my fortune to hold on to it a little longer. But I’m already too late. Her smile disappears, dammit. She sits stiff, spine straight, silk whispering over her thighs. Her chin tilts high again, defiance scraped from fear.
I dismissed the staff so that I alone would have the job of serving her. I pour her juice and arrange her fruit on a salad plate. At least I think it’s a salad plate. I know nothing about taking care of a beautiful woman. Never was pressed enough to care, but if there were a freaking book, I’d buy a library full.
She stares at her glass before taking a sip. I get it, I do. Maybe drugging her wasn’t my best idea but how the fuck else do you get a woman to come home with you?
If only I’d had time to take classes on girls when I was in high school or college. Then maybe I’d understand what men half my age have already learned about asking a woman out and getting her to love you. But when I should have been fumbling my way through awkward first dates and high school proms, I was accompanying my uncles on kill missions. And the women I’ve fucked since then were women who often fell quite literally at my feet. So here we are. I’m with the one woman that matters, and I don’t even know how to do fucking small talk.
“You went all out,” she says finally, biting into toast.
“You deserve more.”
A scoff slips out, quiet and nervous. She doesn’t believe me, but the sound betrays a crack—she wanted to hear it.
I cut my French toast slowly. Calm. Watching her chew like I’m timing her breaths. I have so many things I’d love to tell her. I’d love to hear her conversations. I’m not a talker. Never have been, not since that first traumatic day. But damn, for her I’d talk all night. In between making love, of course, but right now all I do is eat and stare. She’s so close and yet, not.
Finally, she pushes her plate away, folds her hands down, and narrows her dark brown eyes at me. She probably means to giveme a stern, resolute look. It’s adorable. A fluffy kitten deciding to try out its claws. “Okay, tell me, why? Why are you doing this? I know what you said—‘you wanted me, you saw me.’ Blah, blah, blah. But come on. Is that it? Do you just walk into cafés, pick some random girl, decide she’s yours, and drag her by her hair back to your cave?”
Her sarcasm cuts sharp, defensive. She leans back like she’s proud of herself for saying it. Like she’s pinned me. I don’t move for a beat. Then, with deliberate calm, I set my fork down. Knife follows. Silver on china, soft as gunmetal sliding into place. I don’t bother finishing the food.
Okay, I get my wish. Let’s talk.
“There are no other women.” My voice is iron. “There has never been anyone else. Don’t insult me by pretending this is some game I rotate girls through. You are it. Do you understand me, little one? You’re the only one.”
The smirk dies. Her face cracks—not in defiance, not in sass—in something raw. Her hand trembles as it drops her toast to the plate.
“That’s not fair,” she whispers, and the heat in her eyes pools soft and liquid, breaking into wet at the lashes. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
Her voice sharpens, hitching. “You know I can’t. You watched the tape.” Her breath saws out, uneven, spilling fast now that the crack’s broken open. “Don’t you think I would’ve already—God, I can’t even—don’t you think I’d want to? That I’d be out there like everybody else, girls my age, bringing home boys, laughing, having fun, being normal? You think I wouldn’t take the first boy who smiled at me if I thought it would actually work? If I could feel anything, I would’ve taken home any boy who wanted me. But I can’t. I tried. Nothing.”
Tearful. Frustrated. Breaking.
For a heartbeat, that—her look of hurt at the edge of my anger—cuts deeper into me than her words ever could. Because I hate shouting at her. Hate scaring her. The sound of my voice raised against her lashes a whip across my own back.
But then the other image rises, unbidden—the thought of her lips on someone else’s cock, her laugh spilling out into some boy’s ear, his unworthy hands on my girl.
The fury slams into me hard enough to blister. I need that rage. I use it. Because without it, I’ll keep holding too soft, keep letting her hide in her fear. And she’ll never come apart unless I drag her out of that frozen cage.
I force myself to breathe, slow and savage, until I can look at her again without shattering her in two. I move to her side of the table and crouch so we’re eye to eye. My hands bracket her waist, firm but not brutal, caging her without crushing. Her trembling chest heaves against the green silk.
I lean closer, until my breath is hot against her ear. “I don’t care how many times you tried. I don’t care how long you thought it was impossible. You were never going to do it yourself. You need me to force you out of your head, little one. And I will. Because I know what you need, even if you don’t.”
Her throat works on a hard swallow. Her hands clench tight in her lap, caught between fear and the spark of something she doesn’t want to admit to. I rest my forehead against hers for one long, still breath. My voice drops, steady again, but lethal with vow.
