Page 7 of Bought By the Masked BRATVA
Her voice trembles but doesn’t break. “You talk like you own me already.”
I lean in, close enough for my words to graze the shell of her ear. “I do.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The noise from the ballroom fades into nothing. There’s only the sound of her breathing and the sharp, quiet pulse of something I haven’t felt in years. Want, threaded with fury and control.
Finally, she steps back, breaking the spell. “Then you’d better decide what you’re going to do with me.”
“I already have,” I say. “You’re coming with me.”
Her eyes flash with defiance. “And if I say no?”
I allow myself a faint, humorless smile. “Then I remind you that you asked for protection. And I’m a man who always delivers.”
Grace
My breath hitches with fear, but I press it down; because underneath the fear is something else. Something that feels like curiosity, like the thrill I used to get walking into a hostile negotiation.
He's not touching me, not even close, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
He doesn’t answer at first, just turns and starts walking. The movement is deliberate, confident. This is a man who doesn’t ask, only expects compliance. I want to push against it, but I know this is exactly what I signed up for. I had no other choice.
I follow.
The elevator waits at the end of the hall, the mirrored doors throwing our reflections back at us. He presses the button, and I notice the veins in his hands, the way the cuff of his shirt slides just enough to reveal a heavy watch. It’s not decorative, it’s functional. Precision, control.
The doors slide open with a soft chime.
Inside, it’s too quiet. I can hear the faint hum of the machinery and my own heartbeat trying to climb out of my throat.
He glances at me, not impatient, just assessing. “You don’t have to look so nervous,” he says. “If I meant you harm, you’d know it already.”
“That’s comforting,” I mutter.
“Isn’t it?” He grins, and it’s wicked. My stomach erupts with caged butterflies and heat begins to crawl through my veins, all heading in the direction of the space between my thighs. I ignore it. It’s ridiculous.
The elevator hums upward. I count the floors under my breath, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, because focusing on numbers keeps me grounded.
When the doors open, he steps out first and swipes a keycard across a door panel. The suite beyond is enormous. All wide windows, low light, the city sprawling below like a bed of embers.
He moves through the space with unthinking ownership, taking off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair before turning toward the bar. “Drink?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Good,” he says, pouring one for himself. “You’ll need a clear head.”
The irritation flares before I can stop it. “You don’t get to order me around. You paid for what I offered on that stage, information from me in exchange for my protection.”
He takes a slow sip, eyes on mine. “You said protection for life. That comes with conditions.”
“Conditions you’re apparently making up as you go along,” I clarify and raise my brows to punctuate my point.
His mouth curves slightly, though it’s not amusement. “Do you think you’re in a position to negotiate?”
“I’m always in a position to negotiate. It’s my job.”
“Wasyou job.” He sets his glass down. The sound is soft, precise, final. “By all means, tell me your terms.”
