Page 24 of Bratva Bidder
Her breath hitches. “Is this how it’s going to be?” she mutters.
I slide my hand higher, grazing her ribs, feeling the tension coiled tight in every inch of her body.
I lower my head and brush my lips against the side of her neck—barely a kiss, more of a slow, dangerous graze—just enough for her to feel the heat of my mouth against her skin.
“Why don’t you want to be my wife?” I ask, my voice a low rumble against her throat.
She’s still, frozen except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“Is it because you don’t want to be a bastard’s wife?” I murmur against her pulse. “Is that it? You don’t want your precious blood polluted by mine?”
She jerks slightly in my hold, and I tighten my grip, pulling her flush against me.
She can feel exactly what she’s doing to me. Exactly how little her insults touch what I really want.
And I can feel her too—anger, defiance, confusion—and something darker starting to burn under her skin.
Before I can say anything else, her hand cracks across my face.
I barely feel it, but the shock of it cuts through the moment like a blade.
“Don’t you dare say that,” she spits, her chest heaving, her eyes flashing like she’s ready to set the whole house on fire if I push her one inch further.
For a second, we just stare at each other, the air between us burning hotter than any fight I’ve been in. She’s panting, trying to catch her breath, her fists still clenched at her sides as if she expects me to strike her back.
I step into her space, crowding her without touching, and she flinches instinctively, bracing herself.
I grab her chin between my fingers, firm but careful, forcing her to look up at me.
“I don’t hit women,” I say quietly. “But don’t think for a second you’ll get away with touching me without consequences.”
Her breath hitches, her hands curling into fists at her sides, as if she’s ready to fight me, as if she thinks she still has some control left to defend.
She doesn’t. Not from me.
Not anymore.
I reach out and grab the back of her neck, not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough that she can’t mistake what’s coming. Then I take her mouth with mine.
There’s nothing soft about the kiss. It’s punishing. Hard. A claim more than a caress, a warning written in the way my lips crush hers, the way my tongue forces her mouth open and demands her surrender.
She struggles at first—her hands pushing against my chest, trying to shove me away—but it’s weak, uncoordinated, her body betraying her even as her mind screams no.
And when she gives in, when her hands stop pushing and fist instead into the fabric of my shirt, dragging me closer, it sets something loose inside me.
Something dark.
Something I’m not sure I can leash again.
I deepen the kiss, swallowing her small, broken gasp, feeling the heat pouring off her skin, the way her body strains toward mine despite every instinct telling her to run.
When I finally rip my mouth from hers, both of us breathing hard, I keep my grip tight at the back of her neck and press my forehead against hers for a brief, charged second.
“You’re mine now, Nadya,” I murmur against her lips. “Start getting used to it.”
The sun is already dipping low behind the hills, the estate swallowed up in gold light and long, dark shadows. I stand in the study with Lev, reviewing the last of the preparations. He leans lazily against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that dry, knowing look that’s always annoyed me.
“You really think she’s going to go through with it that easy?” he asks, voice casual but the meaning sharp underneath.
