Page 11 of Bratva Bidder

I stop pacing and press my hands to the edge of the fireplace. The marble is cool beneath my fingers. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above—lips still painted, eyes raw, too much woman and not enough armor.

So many nights I wondered if that night had meant something to him. If he remembered the way he kissed me, slow at first, then like he couldn’t help it. If he remembered the cigarette we shared after, him shirtless and unreadable under the moonlight.

If he remembered my name.

Clearly not. Because when I looked up at him tonight from the stage…there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition.

Only calculation.

And yet he bid. Loudly. Final. He bought me.

Why? Does he know?

No.

No, if he knew who I was—if he remembered—I wouldn’t be in this room.

I’d be in trouble.

The door clicks and I spin around, heart leaping into my throat.

And there he is.

Tall. Composed. That same unreadable expression.

Konstantin Buryakov.

Older now, with flecks of silver in his blond hair even though he couldn’t possibly be more than a decade older than me. Like a blade that’s seen war.

He steps inside like he owns the oxygen, like the rest of the world is just waiting for him to make the next move. And in the space between one breath and the next, I feel it all over again.

The past. The heat. The danger I should’ve run from then…and definitely should run from now.

Only now? He owns me.

He closes the door behind him like he has all the time in the world.

I straighten my spine. I will not be the first to speak.

Konstantin’s eyes rake over me—not lewd, not obvious, but measured. Like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s evaluating a weapon before he decides whether to sheath it or use it.

He doesn’t say a word. He just watches.

I hate the silence.

I hate that it reminds me of the last time I saw him—me in his arms, him watching me the same way right before he kissed me like I belonged to him.

I swallow.

He takes a step closer.

I hold my ground.

He lifts his hand—slowly—and brushes his fingers along the curve of my jaw. Just once. His touch is warm and maddeningly soft for someone built like a war machine.

I exhale through my nose, tilting my chin upward. “Inspecting your goods, are you?”

His mouth curves slightly. Not a smile. A warning. “Making sure I got what I paid for.”