Page 4 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
The bastard’s perceptive.
I tip my head, keep my voice smooth. “Maybe I’m just good at hiding what I want.”
His hand flexes against my spine. For a moment, I think I’ve won. I’ve thrown him off the scent. But when I glance up, his eyes burn hotter, sharper.
Like he sees right through me.
I remind myself why I’m here. I belong in this ballroom as much as any of them, more, because I’m the only one brave enough to peel back their silken masks. He can look at me like I’m prey all he wants.
He has no idea.
I didn’t come here to be devoured.
I came here to watch them burn.
His palm stays firm on my back as he steers me through the crowd, a predator moving a piece across the board. To anyone watching, we’re just another couple drifting in the tide of violins and candlelight. But I feel the iron underneath his silk, the heat of his body soaking through my dress like a warning.
Good. Let him think I’m impressed.
The closer I get, the easier it will be to see the truth.
My eyes flick past his shoulder as we turn, catching glimpses of the room. A man with a dragon mask slipping a fat envelope to another guest; a tattooed wrist peeking out of a sleeve; a serverin white who’s definitely no server. All little clues, little fissures in the gold-plated surface.
He spins me again, and the silver of his mask flashes under the soft lights. I catch my own reflection for half a second in its polished edge: blonde hair pinned, black lace mask, a stranger’s face under mine.
“You’re very quiet,” he says, voice brushing low over my skin. “Not like the others.”
“I like to observe,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “Isn’t that what a masquerade is for?”
His thumb strokes the bare skin just above my hip. “A masquerade is for surrender. For losing yourself.”
My stomach tightens. Not with fear, exactly, but with the weight of the moment. I’m here to dig up rot, not to get lost in it. But there’s something about the way he moves, the steadiness of him, that throws me off balance.
He leans in closer, and I can feel his breath against my ear when he murmurs, “You’re not like them.”
I force a smile. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just better at faking it.”
A low chuckle vibrates from his chest. “You’re not faking anything.”
I hate the way my pulse jumps at that. He’s not supposed to get under my skin. He’s a lead, a subject, a mask. Nothing more.
“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” I say, lifting my chin, meeting his dark gaze head-on.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing behind the silver gilt. “I don’t like guessing games. When I see something I want…” His fingers slide higher, pressing into the small of my back until we’re flush together. “…I take it.”
The words should make my blood run cold. Instead they come with a flicker of heat I don’t want, a flash of what it would be like to be taken by a man like this, a man who doesn’t ask.
Focus, Natasha.
I shift my gaze past him again, scanning for exits, for faces, for anything that can anchor me back in my purpose. The friend-of-a-friend who got me this ticket swore the Bratva’s “heir” would be here tonight, looking for a wife. If I can figure out which one he is, if I can get him talking, if I can—
“You’re hunting,” he says suddenly, softly.
My head snaps back to him. “Excuse me?”
His lips quirk, but his eyes are dark. “You watch the room like a sniper. Not like a guest. Not like a woman hoping to be chosen for a night of anonymous debauchery. You’re hunting.”
For one moment I forget to breathe. He can’t possibly know who I am. He can’t possibly know what I’m doing here.
