Page 7 of Sold to the Bratva
“Good,” he says finally with a slight smirk.
I frown. “What?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
“I don’t want polite. I don’t want pretend. I want honest.” He stops right in front of me. “And you just gave me exactly that.”
He’s so close I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. I note the faint stubble along his jaw, the thin scar near his temple, the steady way his gaze locks on mine. Part of me wants to run, but another part wants to be devoured. I shove that reckless urge deep and refuse to acknowledge it.
“You’re not what I expected,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
I resist the shiver that threatens to crawl up my spine.
“Let me guess,” I say, each word dripping sarcasm. “You expected meek? Naïve? Maybe someone so desperate to please her father she’d fall in line and warm your bed like a good little trophy?”
His lips twitch. “No, certainly not,” he says, leaning down close enough that I can feel his breath. “I’d be disappointed if you were any of those things, especially given your father’s reputation. I just didn’t expect you to be so angry.”
I spring to my feet, bringing us nearly nose-to-nose.
“Well, sorry to disappoint,” I hiss.
“You haven’t disappointed me,” he says, voice low.
My breath catches, but I recover quickly. He won’t know the effect he has on me. I blame my father for this, too. If Papa hadn’t sent my date home last night, I wouldn’t be so wound up. That’s all it is. My hormones are raging because I was denied what I needed and it has nothing to do with Isaac’s broad shoulders.
“Let me make something clear, Kozlov,” I say, voice sharp. “I don’t want this marriage. I don’t want you. And I will do everything in my power to make this as unpleasant for you as possible until you give up this ridiculous charade.”
He studies me for a long moment, then smiles, not mockingly, not kindly, but like a man who has just been handed a rare opportunity to prove himself.
“Unfortunately for you,” he says, his voice dripping with velvet, “I like a challenge.”
His smile is the final straw.
I spin on my heel and storm out, my stilettos pounding the marble like war drums. Rage surges with every step. I don’t wait for permission or look back. I just walk, fast and focused, as though speed alone can outrun the weight of what’s been done to me.
I have to marry that smug, smirking bastard who thinks my fury is amusing. My plan shatters right in front of me. No matter what I do, I can already tell it will only challenge him more.
“Katya!” my father’s voice booms from behind me. “Stop.”
I don’t. Instead, I pick up my pace.
“Stop.” His tone sharpens, commanding and familiar. His footsteps close in, and when his hand clamps around my arm, I whirl on him, eyes blazing.
“What?” I snap.
His expression is tight, controlled. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he seethes.
“Home,” I say, my voice shaking. “Away from this insanity. I’m not marrying him.”
“Stop being dramatic.”
I bark out a bitter laugh. “Dramatic? You just gave me away like a party favor, andI’mbeing dramatic? Do you even care about me at all?”
He lets go of my arm but steps in front of me, blocking the hallway. “I didn’t give you away,” he argues, his eyes furious. “I secured your future.”
“You sold me,” I say softly, low enough that only he can hear.
“I made a deal,” he says. “One that will ensure your safety and protect the family.”
I step in closer, shaking with fury. “What about what I want, Papa? What about my choice? My dreams?”
