Page 5 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
I force a laugh.
His hand tightens at my waist, and his voice drops even lower. “Be careful, little dove. Some prey bites back.”
The violins shift to a slower waltz. He doesn’t let me go.
Ivor
I watch the words land. There’s a flicker in her eyes, refusal, not fear. Good. Fear bores me. Refusal is something I can break down and keep.
The waltz winds toward its last sweep. I guide her through the final turn and, instead of releasing her like a gentleman would, I keep my hand on her lower back. She allows it. Not submission, she’s taking a measurement. How far will I push? How far will she let me?
Far enough.
“Walk with me,” I say.
To anyone watching, it’s a courteous request. To her, it’s a line drawn. She meets my gaze as if weighing costs and outcomes, then nods once. We slip off the dance floor into the shadowed edge of the ballroom where the lights soften and the chatter fades to a manageable hum.
I lift two fingers in the smallest gesture toward the gallery. Across the room, Anton, my quietest man, turns his head. He doesn’t move, doesn’t spook the herd. He knows the signal: trace her entry, pull the guest list slice for this hour, cross with seating, bar tabs, cloakroom tags. If she came through that door, I’ll know whose name she borrowed to do it.
“Do you always command strangers?” she asks as we pass through the gilded pillars.
“Only the interesting ones.”
“Flatterer.”
“Accurate reporter,” I counter.
Her mouth tightens at that, a sharp little flash that tells me more than she realizes. Reporter. I could’ve said observer, onlooker, wallflower. I didn’t. I want her to know I’m not fooled by the lace and the perfume and the polite nods. And I want to see what she does with the knowledge that I’m not fooled.
We take the marble steps up to the side gallery. From here the ballroom looks like a toy city, tiny figures in jeweled masks, tiny dramas. I stop at the balustrade and lean in, caging her between the rail and my chest. Not touching more than necessary. Still enough to make it clear that if she bolts, she’ll have to bolt through me.
Close like this, the tells collect themselves: hair pinned by someone with hands, not a stylist with assistants; one earring a fraction lower than the other; a faint crescent of ink on her right forefinger where a pen sits when you’re scribbling fast; heels chosen for stability, not for show. Everything functional beneath a skin of glitter.
“You don’t belong here,” I say, not as insult. As fact.
Her chin lifts. “Belonging is a story people tell to keep other people out.”
“Is that what you’re here to write? Who belongs?”
“I’m here to observe.”
“And sell what you observe?”
She doesn’t blink. Brave little dove. “Truth isn’t a commodity. It’s a service.”
I laugh, soft. “The Bratva doesn’t run on services. We run on leverage.”
“And fear,” she says.
“And loyalty,” I add, because she should understand the full equation if she intends to play this game on my floor.
Below us, my cousins circulate. Hyenas in suits. One of them, Ash, glances up, an instinctive search for my weakness. I give him nothing but a stainless-steel stare through the mask until he looks away first. My father’s ultimatum scrapes through my chest again.Breed an heir or I’ll pass everything to your cousins. The familiar heat rises in my throat. He wants a docile bride, a womb he can count on. I want a challenge I can battle every night.
I turn back to her. “You said you like stories. Then listen to this one: a man at a masquerade needs to choose a wife. He’s told to pick soft. But he picks sharp instead.”
Her breath hitches. Not fear. Calculation, again. She’s measuring the angle of the blade.
“Sharp cuts,” she says.
