Page 67 of Bratva Bride
Konstantin’s voice cuts across the room, low but impossible to ignore. “I need to talk to my wife—alone.”
The authority behind the words leaves no room for debate. Anya’s lips part with the start of a protest, yet after one look at him she thinks better of it, her silence crisp as she folds her arms and steps back. Maksim moves almost immediately, laying a reassuring hand on Mila’s shoulder and guiding her toward the hallway; my daughter looks over her shoulder, reluctant. I nod at her.
A moment later, their footsteps fade, the door clicks shut, and the apartment feels a fraction smaller.
Now it’s only the two of us, and the tension between us hums like a live wire. Konstantin’s gaze finds mine, unblinking, searching for whatever answer might be hiding there. I hold myself still, chin lifted, determined not to be the first to waver.
He steps closer, the air seeming to warm with every inch he claims. I try to angle away—just enough to keep distance, just enough to breathe—but he anticipates it, moving with me so smoothly it feels like a dance I never agreed to join. My back brushes the edge of a table; there’s nowhere else to gounless I want to retreat outright, and I refuse to give him that satisfaction.
“Why did you run, Nadya?” The words are soft, but the heat beneath them sings across my skin. His hand hovers near my hip, not touching, only reminding me of every time he has.
“I ran to keep Mila safe,” I answer, steady despite the thundering of my pulse. “And I was right to.”
His jaw tenses, the muscle flexing as if he’s holding back more than words. “Safe from me?” he asks, voice roughened by something I can’t quite name—hurt, anger, desire, all of it bound together.
“Safe from the people who follow you,” I correct, though I hear the hesitation threading my own reply. “Safe from everything that shadows your name.”
He closes the last bit of space, so near I feel the warmth of his breath, the familiar scent of him stirring memories I’ve tried to bury. I turn my head, meaning to break the hold of those memories, yet he angles me, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“Tell me you don’t still feel this,” he murmurs, and though his tone is quiet, the promise beneath it vibrates through me. The magnetic pull between us is maddening—every exhale, every heartbeat a reminder of nights I’ve tried to convince myself were mistakes even as I ached to relive them.
I draw a slow breath, fighting to keep my voice even. “Feeling it never stopped any of this from becoming a threat to our daughter.”
His hand finally lands against the wall beside my shoulder, caging me without contact, his body angled so close I sense each subtle shift of his chest. “I would never harm her, Nadya.”
“It isn’t harm in the obvious ways that frightens me,” I whisper back, my words trembling even as I cling to my resolve. “It’s the life that comes for us because of you.”
For a beat he says nothing, only studies me, as though memorizing every fissure in my defenses. I feel him everywhere—heat curling through my belly, the unmistakable awareness low and thick. I hate that it still happens, hate that just being near him unravels me while I struggle to keep my own name, my own will, intact.
He leans in, his mouth close enough that each syllable caresses my cheek. “Then let me fix it,” he says, and I hear the vow as surely as any binding oath.
My heart stutters, torn between longing and distrust. “You can’t erase the city you rule,” I breathe. “And you can’t pretend Anya isn’t here, too close, a reminder of how quickly you replaced me.”
A flicker of frustration shadows his expression—then something softer, regret perhaps, quick as a heartbeat. “She was never a replacement,” he says, the words ground out in a low rasp. “But this conversation ends the moment we start fighting ghosts instead of each other.”
I swallow, pulse thrumming where his nearness feels like a brand against my skin. “Then tell me why I should believe anything has changed.”
His answer is a whisper meant for me alone. “Because I nearly lost you both. And because losing you once was enough to break every line I thought I wouldn’t cross.”
The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. I can’t let myself surrender to it, not yet—but in this small room, with his hand planted beside my head and his voice threaded through every nerve, resistance feels perilously fragile. I square my shoulders, refusing to bow even as that magnetic heat spirals tighter.
“Words, Konstantin,” I manage, my voice husky, unwilling to crack. “Prove them.”
For the first time since I was pulled into that car, I see uncertainty flicker in his gaze. He takes a step back—only one, but enough that my lungs fill again, enough that I’m reminded I still control my own body. Yet the connection between us hums, unbroken, as if distance is only a temporary reprieve.
But then he closes the distance in a single, decisive breath, his mouth crashing onto mine with the ferocity of a man who has run out of patience and arguments alike, and though every rational thought screams that I should push him away, the shock of contact melts into something molten so quickly that I can only gasp against his lips, fingers curling in the front of his jacket as if they’ve been starved of this very texture for years.
The kiss is not gentle, nor is it careful—his need spills straight through the seam of my mouth, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, and the taste of him floods back so vividly that my knees threaten to fold. He senses it at once, gathers me up with an effortless sweep of powerful arms, and before my next heartbeat he’s carrying me across the room, each stride sure and unhurried even while the kiss deepens, as if he’s determined to remind me that he owns every inch of space between us.
My back meets the bed in a rush of fabric and bracing air. He follows me down without breaking contact, a low sound rumbling in his chest that vibrates against my sternum, pullingan answering shiver from deep inside me. His palms frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones with a tenderness at odds with the hard press of his body, and I feel the tension between us—thick, inevitable, shot through with anger, grief, and the kind of hunger that refuses to be starved any longer.
He kisses me again, slower now but no less intense, exploring the shape of my mouth as though mapping all the ways it has changed and all the ways it has remained heartbreakingly familiar.
When he finally draws back, the space of a breath separating us, his forehead rests against mine, both of us panting, eyes open, the air between our lips humid with everything we haven’t said. His heartbeat gallops beneath my palm, matching the wild rhythm behind my ribs, and the silence feels alive, charged with questions neither of us can risk voicing while desire still speaks louder.
I should push him away, remind him of every reason I ran, every bruise I now hide beneath long sleeves, but his mouth descends again—soft this time, coaxing rather than demanding, and the plea lodged in my throat dissolves into a sigh that gives him permission he doesn’t even need. One hand threads into my hair, tilting my head to the perfect angle, while the other skims down my side, tracing the curve of my waist through thin fabric, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
I arch instinctively, caught between craving the press of him and fearing how completely it unravels me, and for a moment he pauses, reading the war in my eyes.
