Page 69 of Bratva Bride
It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just exhaustion. Stress. The rush of adrenaline leaving my system.
But as I sit there, waiting for the spinning to pass, a thread of worry slips into my thoughts, cold and unwelcome.
I touch my forehead again, trying to remember the last time I truly felt like myself.
Something isn’t right.
20
KONSTANTIN
I strideinto the living room, fury boiling just under my skin. The entire apartment seems to quiet as soon as I appear, conversations dropping off, everyone alert—waiting to see what I’ll do. Viktor is by the window, arms folded, expression unreadable. Maksim leans against the far wall, eyes wary. Anya looks up from her phone, her gaze flicking between me and Nadya, as if she can sense the violence in the air.
I scan the room until my eyes land on the man standing near the doorway—broad-shouldered, watchful, trying too hard to blend in. I don’t know his name, but I know his face now. I remember it from the security footage Viktor showed me. The man assigned to retrieve Nadya and Mila.
I step right up to him, crowding his space, my voice ice-cold. “You were the one who brought my wife and daughter here?”
He nods, uncertain. “Yeah, I—uh?—”
I cut him off with a look. “Did you put your hands on her?”
He hesitates, eyes darting to Viktor, searching for backup that doesn’t come. “She was fighting, she—she wouldn’t get in the car. I just?—”
“That’s not what I asked,” I growl, stepping closer, crowding him until he has nowhere to go. “Did you lay a hand on her?”
He swallows hard, shrinking a little under the weight of my rage.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall, voice rising, just enough to make sure everyone hears me. “Let me make something clear—if any of you ever lay a hand on Nadya, or on my daughter, if you so much as leave a bruise…” I squeeze tighter, his feet barely scraping the floor. “I’ll make sure you never touch anything again.”
I drive my fist into the man’s ribs, then slam him down to the floor and kick him, making sure he feels every ounce of pain he tried to deliver to Nadya. He tries to curl up, but I drag him back up and slam his face into the side of the table.
“Konstantin! Stop!” Nadya’s voice cuts through the noise, hoarse and desperate. She grabs my arm, nails digging in, trying to pull me off. “You’re going to kill him! That’s enough!”
I wrench free, my vision swimming red, my breath ragged. “Don’t do that, Nadya,” I snarl, my voice raw from rage. “Don’t defend him. Don’t ask me to let it go.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she cries, her voice cracking, fear and disbelief flickering across her face. “This isn’t who you were—this isn’t who Mila needs you to be!”
I glare at her, breathing hard, blood dripping from my fist. “You want me to let men hurt you? You want me to stand by and do nothing?”
She shakes her head, tears gathering, trembling with anger and worry. “I want you to be better than this. I want Mila to have a father, not a monster.”
My hands shake with adrenaline and pain. I look at her, at the room full of witnesses—Viktor’s cold eyes, Maksim’s silence, Anya’s shock—and then at the man gasping on the floor, already battered nearly senseless.
The room is thick with judgment and fear, but I hold Nadya’s gaze, my voice low and cold. “If anyone ever lays a hand on you again, there won’t be anything left for you to stop.”
Nadya stares at me, her breath shallow, wounded by more than bruises. Her face is pale with fury and something else—betrayal, maybe, or heartbreak. I watch her go, her shoulders stiff, not looking back, and a hollow ache punches through my chest. I almost call out, but the words die in my throat. All I hear is her footsteps, echoing down the hall, the door closing behind her harder than a slap.
I stand over the bloodied man, chest heaving. Maksim steps forward, watching me with that wary, assessing look he never quite loses.
“Take him,” I say, my voice flat. “Get him cleaned up. I don’t want to see his face again tonight.”
Maksim nods, hauls the man up by the arm, and drags him from the room, leaving a dark smear of blood trailing across the tile. The apartment feels colder when he’s gone, but the silence doesn’t last.
Viktor’s watching me, his expression unreadable, hands tucked into his pockets. He waits until the room empties, then steps close enough that I have no choice but to pay attention.
“Your wife is lying to you, you know,” Viktor says quietly. “She’s not telling you everything.”
I stiffen, anger and unease prickling along my skin. “What are you talking about?”
