Page 12 of Bratva Bidder

“Disappointed?”

“Not yet.”

I bark out a soft laugh. “Give it time. And too bad there’s no refund policy,” I say. “You could’ve saved yourself fifteen million and found someone easier to break.”

His eyes flash. “Who says I want to break you?”

I open my mouth to throw another line—something cutting—but his hand moves again, this time tracing the edge of my collarbone, down to the hollow of my throat. Barely there. Not enough to stop me. Just enough to burn.

There’s no warmth in his eyes. No recognition. Just that cold, unsettling focus I remember from the stage.

Only now, I’m not elevated and blinded by lights.

Now, I’m his.

His mouth curves—barely. Not a smile. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If I’d wanted a porcelain doll, I’d have bid on someone who didn’t look like she wanted to bite my hand off.”

“Then maybe you should’ve.”

He steps in closer. Not touching. Just enough to crowd my space.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

It’s not a question. It’s an observation.

I meet his gaze. “You want me to be?”

“No,” he says softly.

I cross my arms, keeping my back straight even though my skin is buzzing. I hate that my pulse reacts. I hate that he’s close enough for me to feel his breath on my cheek.

Because he doesn’t remember me.

Not the rooftop. Not the kiss. Not the night we tangled in cotton sheets with the city lights pouring in from the window.

And I can’t remind him. He thinks I’m untouched. Untouched and his. And if he finds out otherwise…

I don’t know what he’ll do.

So I swallow it. Bury it. Tuck it into the same box where I keep all the other truths no one’s allowed to see.

I tilt my head up, letting my eyes go cool. “You going to stare at me all night,” I murmur, “or are you planning to issue commands?”

His lips twitch again. “Not yet.”

“Waiting for what?”

He leans in, so close I can smell the clean hint of spice on his skin. His eyes flick to my mouth before he steps back. “Change into something comfortable, I’m sure you can’t breathe in that. We have a long way to go home.”

Then he turns and walks away—just like that.

And I hate that my knees don’t stop shaking until the door clicks shut behind him.

When he’s gone, I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.

I wait a beat, listening to the silence. Then I cross the room to get the small suitcase I packed to take with me. Not gowns. Not lingerie. Actual options. Black jeans. A loose white blouse. A pairof flats. I had hoped against hope that I would be taking it back home with me, but hope is a cruel thing.

I choose quickly, moving on instinct, tugging the heavy silk dress over my head and leaving it pooled on the floor like a shed skin I never asked to wear.