Page 17 of Sold to the Bratva
He doesn’t touch me. He knows he doesn’t even need to in order to get me riled up.
“I will admit,” he says as his eyes scan the open suitcase behind me, “you’re persistent.”
He takes another step, slow and measured. “But you’re going to have to try a lot harder to get out of this.”
My mouth is suddenly dry. “You keep talking like I’m supposed to have any idea what you’re saying.”
He smiles. “Katya,” he says, his voice low. “I told you I value honesty. Don’t start lying to me now.”
I hate the way he says my name, like it tastes good in his mouth, like he’s letting it melt on his tongue.
“You’re clever,” he adds. “But your father’s been playing this game longer than you’ve been alive.”
I’m about to snap back when a knock sounds behind him.
Maude peeks her head in. “Sir, the wedding planners are here for your meeting with Miss Belova.”
My heart stops. “What?” I blurt.
Isaac doesn’t turn. He just grins at me, slow and smug and devastating.
“The people you called up?” he says. “Yeah, they were never the real planners.”
My jaw drops.
“Your father knew you would pull something like this,” he continues, completely unfazed. “So he planted numbers in his office for you to find. Decoy contacts. Fake vendors. It was all entirely staged.”
I can’t speak.
I don’t even have words for the level of betrayal, humiliation, and awe currently colliding in my chest.
Isaac takes another step closer until we’re toe-to-toe, and he drops his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“You’re playing checkers, sweetheart. We’re playing chess.”
My jaw tightens.
Maude clears her throat politely behind him.
He glances over his shoulder. “Thank you, Maude. We’ll be right there.”
She nods and disappears.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and drop my head in my hands.
This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening. I planned everything. I anticipated every detail. I called every vendor, every designer. I thought I’d finally outmaneuvered them.
Instead, I’ve been playing with pieces they handed me. Isaac stands silently in front of me, letting the moment settle.
I groan into my hands. “There’s really no way out of this, is there?”
“No,” he says simply.
I drag my palms down my face and glare up at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying you.”
I hate how my pulse quickens at that. How something in his tone makes heat curl low in my stomach.
