Page 8 of Taken By The Bratva
When the player actually grabs my ass as I'm serving his whiskey—squeezing hard enough to leave bruises, his fingers lingering in a way that makes my stomach turn—I expect Maxim to finallyreact. To drop the pretense and defend me the way any man should defend the woman he's sleeping with.
Instead, he watches with that same carefully neutral expression as I handle the situation myself, firmly removing the man's hand and continuing my service with icy professionalism. The betrayal cuts deeper than the actual assault. I can handle grabby customers—I've been dealing with them since I started waitressing in college. But I can't handle the man I love allowing it to happen.
After the game finally ends and the players drift out into the night, counting their winnings and making plans I don't want to hear, I find myself alone with Maxim in the charged silence. He approaches me like he's walking into a minefield, clearly recognizing the storm brewing in my expression.
"Brooke—" he starts, but I cut him off with a look that could freeze hell itself, my eyes burning with the kind of quiet fury that makes even hardened gamblers take a step back.
"Don't," I say quietly, my voice deadly calm, each syllable precisely measured and dripping with icy restraint. The controlled rage in my tone makes him pause mid-step, his mouth still partially open around unspoken excuses. "Just don't. Not a single word."
"You don't understand the position I was in," he says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "If I'd reacted, it would have exposed us. Put you in danger?—"
"So I'm your dirty little secret?" The words explode out of me with weeks of suppressed frustration and hurt behind them. "Something you enjoy in private but can't acknowledgein public? I'm good enough to fuck but not good enough to defend?"
He flinches like I've slapped him, his eyes widening with genuine hurt, and I'm glad. I want him to feel a fraction of the searing, bone-deep humiliation I just endured while he sat there silent at that poker table. I want that sting to linger on his skin the way their stares and comments still crawl across mine.
"It's not like that," he insists, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper, but his explanations sound hollow even to himself, the words falling flat and lifeless between us. His fingers fidget at his sides, betraying his discomfort. "I'm trying to protect you—from Dimitri, from his circle, from everything they're capable of doing if they knew?—"
"You're trying to protect yourself!" Years of fighting for respect as a woman in male-dominated spaces fuel my anger, giving me the strength to say what needs to be said. "Your reputation, your standing with Dimitri, your comfortable position where you get to have me without any of the inconvenience of actually claiming me."
"That's not fair?—"
"Isn't it?" I step closer, letting him see all the hurt and anger I've been hiding behind professional smiles. "When was the last time we went somewhere public together? When was the last time you introduced me as anything other than 'the waitress'? Hell, when was the last time you even said my name in front of other people?"
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating, like an invisible wall growing thicker by the second. His eyes dart away from mine, then back again, mouth opening slightly beforeclosing without a sound. That hesitation, that painful inability to answer my direct questions, tells me everything I need to know with a clarity that words could never achieve.
"I won't be your convenient secret anymore, Maxim," I continue, my voice breaking slightly on his name. "I deserve better than being hidden away like something shameful. I deserve a man who's proud to stand beside me, not someone who watches other men disrespect me and does nothing."
"You know it's more complicated than that," he says desperately, reaching for me, but I step back before he can touch me.
"It's only complicated because you're making it complicated," I reply, tears stinging my eyes but refusing to fall. "Either I matter enough to fight for, or I don't. And tonight you made it very clear which category I fall into."
I grab my purse from behind the bar, my hands shaking with adrenaline and heartbreak. "I quit, Maxim. The job, whatever this was between us—all of it. I can't do this anymore."
"Brooke, wait?—"
But I'm already walking toward the door, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor with finality. "Don't follow me," I say without turning around. "And don't call me. If you want to keep me in the shadows, you can enjoy the darkness alone."
The night air hits my face like a slap as I step outside, and only then do I let the tears fall. Three weeks of the most intense relationship of my life, and it ends with me walking away from the best money I've ever made and the man who completely consumed my heart.
I know I made the right choice—I won't be anyone's secret, won't settle for being treated like something shameful that needs to be hidden. I deserve better than stolen moments and clandestine meetings with a man who's too cowardly to claim me publicly.
But knowing I'm right doesn't make it hurt any less. As I drive through the empty Brooklyn streets toward my apartment, I can't stop thinking about the look in his eyes when I walked away—like I was taking something vital with me.
Good. Maybe now he'll understand what it feels like to lose something precious because you were too afraid to fight for it.
Maybe now he'll learn the difference between protecting someone and protecting yourself.
8
MAXIM
The week without Brooke is hell. Pure, concentrated hell that makes every hour feel like a lifetime and every breath feel like I'm drowning in my own stupidity. I throw myself into work, trying to ignore the hollow ache in my chest where her laughter used to live, but nothing helps. The poker games feel sterile without her presence, every corner of the restaurant haunted by memories of stolen kisses and heated encounters.
I realize too late that she wasn't just the woman I was sleeping with—she was the light that made everything else bearable, the one person who saw past my family name to the man underneath. And I let her walk away because I was too much of a coward to claim her publicly.
Every night I lie awake remembering the hurt in her eyes when I failed to defend her, the disappointment in her voice when she called me exactly what I am—a coward who chose his comfortable position over her dignity. She was right about everything, and that makes it so much worse.
I've picked up my phone to call her a hundred times, but what can I say? That I'm sorry? That I was protecting her?The excuses sound pathetic even in my own head. She deserves better than apologies—she deserves action.
