Page 12 of Sold to the Bratva
Care to find out firsthand?
My breath catches. What an arrogant man.
I’m good. Wouldn’t want to wound your fragile ego.
His next message slices me open.
The only fragile thing here will be your body after I’m done with it.
My thighs clench, shame and desire tangling until I can’t tell which one is winning. The tequila whispers that I like the danger. That maybe Icraveit.
Another message buzzes before I can answer.
Flustered, my little bride?
I grit my teeth, typing with defiance I don’t quite feel.
No. Just shocked at how confident you are.
The pause before his reply drags, stretching the tension tight. Then his words land like a promise and a threat all at once.
Confidence isn’t necessary when you already own something. You’ll learn that soon.
A shiver runs through me, equal parts fury and anticipation. My stomach twists as I shove the phone back into my bag. I was going to need more than tequila to survive marrying a monster like Isaac Kozlov.
Itoss the phone into my bag, already planning the next phase of Operation: Annoy the Hell Out of My Future Husband.
A part of me is smug. Maybe I finally got under his skin. Maybe he’s second-guessing this whole thing the way he should’ve from the beginning. Maybe this ridiculous wedding will fall apart before I ever have to pack a single bag.
Evie’s already outside, arms crossed, leaning against the railing beneath the amber glow of the bar’s outdoor lights.
She gives me a look when she sees me approaching. “You good?”
“I’m tipsy. Petty. And considering setting fire to my wedding dress before I even pick one.”
She smiles. “So you’re great.”
My father’s driver waits beside the black SUV that has practically become my second home. Andrei, silent and stoic, forever wearing sunglasses at night as though auditioning for a spy movie, gives a curt nod. I roll my eyes and wave him off.
“I don’t need babysitting.”
“You do tonight,” Evie says, looping her arm through mine and steering me toward the car. “You’re drunk and reckless, which means it’s either Andrei or I shove you into an Uber and pray you don’t drunk-text Isaac.”
“I would never,” I lie.
She shoves me in and I settle into the backseat, lean my head against the window, and try not to imagine Isaac’s stupid grin. Or what he’d say if he had responded. Or what I would’ve said if he had pushed just one message further.
Before I know it, we’re winding up the mansion’s long driveway. No lights blaze, and my father’s car is gone, thank God. Inside, the silence is thick. No farewell dinner, no late-night send-off. This might be the last night I ever sleep in my childhood home, and no one seems to care.
I don’t bother with the lights. I know every inch of this place by heart. I climb the stairs with the exaggerated care of someone pretending to be sober and close my bedroom door with a soft click. Off go the heels, then the earrings, and, inevitably, my inhibitions.
I drop my bag and pad barefoot across the plush rug, the hem of my dress brushing my thighs. A bottle of water waits on the nightstand. I drink greedily, trying to slow my heartbeat, trying to forget the way Isaac looked at me, and how close we’d been in proximity.
I shimmy out of the dress and let it pool at the foot of the bed. The top drawer slides open with practiced ease and my fingers find what they’re after without looking. Half-naked, I collapse onto the pillows, heart racing, lips parted, and eyes closed. I picture Isaac’s ice-blue stare, his tailored sleeves rolled to the elbow, his voice issuing commands.
God help me. I hate him. I hate him so much I could scream. Yet my body reacts before my brain can catch up. Heat rolls through me, unexpected and sharp, like I’ve uncorked something I can’t put back.
I slide one hand down my stomach as the other curls around my vibrator. I flick it on and let the sound fill the room, low and intimate. I close my eyes and let the image sharpen. Him pinning me against a wall, growling something obscene into myneck, and those big, rough hands gripping my thighs like they belong to him.
