Page 17 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva
I tilt my head, amused. “Then why didn’t you run?”
“I did!” she yells. “Eventually! And I would’ve run sooner if I wasn’t in fucking shock because I just saw someone’s brain splatter across a wall!”
I raise a brow. “Watch your mouth.”
She glares. “What, too sensitive for the word ‘brain’? I’ll try harder next time.”
“You’re mouthy for someone in your position.” I shake my head, slow and deliberate. “And you’re lying to me.”
She stiffens, lips parting like she’s about to argue—but I don’t give her the chance.
I close the distance between us, slow and predatory. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t run.
Good.
Because I wouldn’t let her.
I dip my head until my lips brush her ear, and my voice is barely a whisper when I speak. “Do you know what I do to liars,solnyshko?”
She trembles. I feel it—can practically taste her fear. But when I pull back just enough to see her face, her chin is lifted, and she’s staring me straight in the eyes. Wide, defiant. Scared, but unflinching.
That does something to me.
A lot of things, actually—and none of them good.
I bring my hand up, slow, deliberate, and trace my thumb across her mouth. She gasps—just a little—and I feel her breath against my skin. Soft. Warm. Fucking addictive.
My eyes drop to her lips. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But—I stop myself. Barely.
My fingers twitch with restraint as I lower my hand and take a full step back, exhaling through my nose like a man trying to suppress a wildfire.
She’s shaking now, arms wrapped tightly around herself. But her eyes haven’t moved.
She’s still staring straight at me. Fierce. Brave.
Or stupid.
But fuck if I don’t admire it.
Not many people can look me in the eye. Fewer still when I’m whispering death in their ear.
But she does. And that makes her dangerous. Not because of what she’s seen. But because of what she makes me feel.
Maxim clears his throat from where he’s been sitting by the fireplace this whole time, arms folded, his expression blank—but his voice carries a hint of boredom when he speaks.
“Just kill her already,” he says flatly. “We’re wasting time.”
Violet flinches like she’s been shot. I see the shift in her posture, the fear tightening every line of her body. Her mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Her eyes—those fucking brown eyes—lock on mine, wide and pleading, even though she doesn’t say a word.
She shakes her head slowly, like maybe if she stays still enough, quiet enough, I’ll come to my senses.
But what she doesn’t know is—I already have.
And that’s the problem.
Because I know I’m supposed to agree with Maxim. Tie up the loose end. Burn the evidence. Walk away clean. Or agree with Arina and let her go unscathed.
