Page 2 of BRATVA'S Killer Bride
He walks closer, assessing Andrey like he is an item up for auction. Then he purses his lips and raises his eyebrows.
“I always knew he would die with his dick in his hand,” he says, lifting dark gray eyes to mine.
“Whatever you came for,” I whisper, “you won’t find it here. You’re too late.”
He glances at the knife still held firmly in my grip, then back at me. A faint smile touches his mouth, like this is the first thing that’s interested him in a decade.
“Not too late,” he says with a feral grin. “Just in time.”
Daniil
All the hotels used by men like Andrey Leskov are the same. Rot dressed up as luxury. My shoes make no sound on the marble. Years of moving like a ghost taught me that. Ahead, two bodyguards stand outside a door covered in gold leaf.
Gold leaf.
I would roll my eyes if I weren’t here to work.
Andrey is a glutton. Money, women, power. It’s all the same to him. He’s in there now, probably rutting into the poor young thing like he owns her. Draining the life out of her like he did all the others. He always likes them soft, and he always leaves them dead. I told myself I’d be the one to stop it. Not because I care, but because it’s necessary. Because he’s sloppy and his proclivities are starting to draw too much unnecessary attention.
I get that people have kinks. I give no shits about what people enjoy in the privacy of their own bedrooms. But it’s getting pretty fucking dire when one woman after another disappears, only to turn up with clear signs thatcrush asphyxiais the cause of death and there last known whereabouts was underneath him.
The guard’s postures are slack, their boredom evident in the way they don’t even care I’m approaching.
There’s a flicker in my chest when I think of the bride. No one deserves to be fucked by Andrey Leskov much less crushed to death beneath him.
She’s a Vasiliev, which surprised me when I first found out. Her cousins practically run this part of the world; men like Andrey wouldn’t dare touch their bloodline. Which makes me wonder what her father promised, or what he’s hiding, to make this arrangement happen without their blessing. Whatever game he’s playing, he’s playing it alone.
The first guard shifts, opening his mouth. I don’t give him the chance to speak. My knife slides between his ribs under the arm, up into the heart. He exhales a shocked hiss and sags. I ease him down so his gun doesn’t clatter. The second guard’s eyes go wide, but he’s slow. They’re always too slow. My other hand is already on the pistol. Two suppressed shots, centre mass. He crumples against the doorframe with the soft sigh of cheap fabric against…well…gold leaf.
I step over their bodies, wiping my blade on the first one’s sleeve. No pity. No pause. Just work.
Inside, Andrey’s voice carries through the door. Smug, slurred, promising her things he’ll never deliver. I grimace. Who calls their cum ‘seed?’ I picture his bulk over hers, the way he likes to watch them panic when they realise they can’t breathe, and for a heartbeat, I almost kick the door in just to make it stop. But I wait, listening. There’s something else. Not panic or desperate cries from a scared young woman. There’s only silence.
I push the door open.
The scene greets me like a painting. Gaudy light. Velvet curtains. Thick, plush carpet that used to be cream. Andrey Leskov on the floor, blood spouting from the slit in his throat, one hand pressed uselessly against it, the other still wrapped around his limp dick. And in front of him, her. The bride. White dress soaked crimson, knife in her hand, eyes huge and unflinching.
She isn’t anybody’s prey. Not anymore.
Every rational thought fractures. I came here to fix a problem, to clean up a liability that would cost millions and trigger a dozen retaliation clauses. Instead, I find the liability dead on the ground and his pretty little wife standing over his corpse, steady and perfect.
The part of me that came here to kill goes perfectly still. The part of me that has always taken what I want, what I need, wakes up. I take her in the way a starving man takes in the scent of bread. Not a mark of hesitation in her grip. Not a tremor in her gaze. A woman carved out of something solid and immovable.
The thought hits before I can stop it, sharp, certain, wrong in every possible way.Mine.Something tightens low in my gut, primitive and unwanted. My pulse stutters, my breath shortens. Need beats through me instead of blood.
I step inside and close the door behind me. She turns to face me, knife raised, blood dripping from her fingers. Most people flinch when they see me. She doesn’t. The sight of her wrecks the discipline I’ve built my entire life on.
“So,” I say, voice low, not wanting to startle her. “His bride beat me to it.”
She doesn’t move, but I see how she tenses, ready to defend herself against me. Up close, the smell of blood is almost intoxicating.
“I always knew he would die with his dick in his hand.” I say it to break the tension, but her brown eyes don’t even blink.
She whispers, “Whatever you came for, you won’t find it here. You’re too late.” But all I can think is how perfect she looks with her white gown ruined and Andrey’s blood spattered all over her. The flicker of her pulse in her throat, the slick shine of the blade in her hand, the steady way she breathes, and the way herchest moves beneath that dangerously low neckline of the ruined dress. It’s obscene how beautiful survival looks on her.
Something inside me breaks open. Heat, hunger, and something unholy takes room in part of me I didn’t know existed.
“Not too late,” I say. “Just in time.”
