Page 119 of Bratva Bidder

“Knives, collapsible baton, sidearm fundamentals. He made sure I could handle a shotgun if needed—but I’ve never shot at a person.” I swallow, meeting his gaze without flinching. “He taught me everything except how to pull the trigger on someone’s skull. Said that choice had to be mine when the day came.”

Silence stretches. There’s something dark and measured stirring behind Konstantin’s eyes—planning, gauging, maybe deciding exactly where I fit in whatever move he’s about to make.

I get up from the bed and start changing. I yank my leggings into place, still not fully awake, while Konstantin prowls the room with that restless, storm-brewing energy. He’s opening drawers that don’t need opening, scanning corners as if an enemy might be hiding behind the lamp.

Something is turning in his head—something big.

“Why are we having this conversation again?” I ask, tugging a sweatshirt over my head.

He doesn’t answer right away.

I glance at him over my shoulder. He’s standing by the window now, arms crossed, jaw tight. Whatever this is, it isn’t about me.

It’s about him.

“What is it?” I ask. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He exhales, slow and controlled. “He’s pushing again.”

“You mean your father.”

He nods.

A beat of silence stretches between us.

And then, carefully, I ask, “Would it be sane to go directly against him?”

“Sane?” he echoes. “Probably not.”

He rubs a thumb against his brow like it’s the only way to keep the fury from leaking out.

His gaze finally meets mine—coal-dark and burning. “He’s crossing every line,” he says. “Roman too. If I let it slide, they’ll read it as weakness.”

“So you need to make a statement,” I say, heartbeat climbing.

“Yes.”

“What kind of statement?” I press.

“That”—he exhales, fists unclenching—“I haven’t figured out yet.”

His voice is quiet, but there’s no softness in it.

I look at him—really look at him. The way his eyes stay trained on something I can’t see. The way he carries weight like it belongs to him. And no matter how much he fights it, no matter how far he tries to carve himself from his bloodline, I can’t help but think how much he resembles his father. Not in words. In instinct. In the way he needs to control the fire before it swallows him.

He senses it—whatever’s passing through my mind—and his gaze flicks to mine. Without saying anything else, he walks out of the room.

I follow him out into the hallway, tugging the sleeves of my sweatshirt down past my wrists.

“So what?” I call after him. “Am I supposed to train with you now?”

He doesn’t even slow. “Yes.”

I huff, half laughing, half annoyed. “Seriously?”

“I need you to be able to protect yourself.”

I jog a few steps to keep up, falling in beside him. “Hello? What did Ijustsay to you five minutes ago? I was trained. Thoroughly. Uncle Arman didn’t raise a helpless niece.”