Page 12 of Kidnapped & Bred By The BRATVA
He turns his arm, showing me another tattoo, this one an eagle, wings spread wide, talons bared. “Freedom to be who I was born to be.”
“And this one?” I touch the ink scrawled low across his ribs, half-hidden by shadow.
His lips twitch. “Death. For every man who thought he could take what was mine.” His eyes lock on mine. “For every man who will try in the future.”
Heat rushes through me, fierce and unrelenting.
His hand slides up, cupping the back of my neck, pulling me closer until our foreheads touch. “You look at me and see rage, scars, ink. But I look at you and see peace. You’re the first thing that’s ever quieted the beast in me.”
My throat tightens, my chest constricts around the words I can’t quite say. I don’t know what this is, not yet, but I know it’s real. More real than anything my father ever arranged, more real than every lesson I was taught about being an obedient daughter.
I press closer, letting the sheet fall away completely, baring myself to him without shame. “Then let me be that for you.”
His eyes flare, his hand tightening at the nape of my neck. And for the first time since he stormed into my life, Roman doesn’t look feral. He looks undone.
Roman
She doesn’t pull away. Not when I tell her what I’ve done, not when I show her the ink cut into my skin, not when I admit the truth about my father and the scars that have been left behind. She just looks at me with those storm-gray eyes, steady and unflinching.
And then she speaks.
“I don’t know how to be what you want,” she whispers.
My jaw tightens. “What does that mean?”
Her fingers twist in the sheets, her voice trembling. “I didn’t have a normal life, Roman. No school, no friends. Tutors came to the house, lessons tailored to make me… accomplished. Piano, languages, etiquette. All for the day my father would marry me off.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never even been kissed properly until you. I was groomed to be a good wife, an accessory. Not a person.”
The words slice through me. That bastard caged her, polished her, prepared her like a jewel to be displayed and bartered.
Rage boils in my veins, but I shove it down, because right now she doesn’t need my fury. She needs me.
I take her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up. “Listen to me, krasivy. I don’t want the daughter he tried to build. I don’t want a perfect little wife trained to smile and obey.”
Her breath catches.
“I want you. The woman in front of me. The one who looks me in the eye even when she’s afraid. The one who came for me with her body when anyone else would have run.” My thumb brushes her bottom lip, swollen from my kisses. “That’s who I want. And I want her naked as often as possible.”
Her cheeks flush, a shiver running down her spine. But her lips curve in the faintest smile, uncertain and shy.
“Just… me?” she asks.
“Only you. Always.”
The hunger that roars up in me is different this time. Not just feral possession, though that burns hot as ever. But something softer threaded through it. I want to destroy her innocence, yes, but I also want to give her back what her father stole: choice. I’ll just make sure she chooses me and the life I want to give her.
I lower my mouth to hers, kissing her slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of her. She sighs into me, fingers sliding tentatively up my chest.
I ease her back against the pillows, spreading her hair like a dark halo across the sheets. She looks up at me with wide eyes, lips parted, skin flushed, and I nearly lose it.
My hands roam her body, rough palms skimming over soft curves, learning her, mapping her. She gasps when I cup her breast, when I drag my thumb across the tight peak. Her back arches, pressing into me, asking for more without words.
“Beautiful,” I murmur against her throat, nipping, sucking, leaving marks she’ll see tomorrow. “Every inch of you.”
Her legs shift, opening slightly, an invitation that makes my cock leak and my mouth water. I drag my hand down her stomach, hook my fingers in her cotton panties, and tear them aside. She cries out, not in protest but in shock, in heat.
I slide my fingers through her slick folds, groaning when I feel how wet she already is. “For me,” I rasp. “Always for me.”
