Page 121 of Bratva Bidder

“I know. You did well,” he says, stopping behind me. “But I’m not interested in what you can do standing still, on a calm morning, with nothing on the line.”

His voice drops slightly. “I need to know what you’ll do when it’s your life. Or Mila’s. Or Nikolai’s. That’s a different kind of shot.”

I feel him step in closer—close enough to sense the heat of his body at my back, though he hasn’t touched me yet. Then his hands settle on my hips, deliberate and firm, and he shifts my stance just slightly.

“You’re too rigid here,” he murmurs, guiding my weight differently. “You need to be able to pivot fast. Lean without tipping.”

One hand trails up my arm, adjusting my elbow, anchoring it with a steadiness that’s all control. My skin reacts before my mind does, a quiet ache blooming beneath the surface.

His voice is low and level, but it carries weight. “Tension is fine. You just need to control where it lives. Don’t waste it where it doesn’t serve you.”

I nod, barely, unsure if I’m agreeing with the advice or reacting to the pressure of his hand sliding down my spine before he steps away.

“Again,” he says.

This time, the movement is cleaner—not because I changed much, but because now he’s in my head. Because every correction still lingers on my skin.

I fire.

He watches.

I finish the second magazine and turn to him, chest rising faster than the shot count should justify. “Better?”

He gives a single nod, then takes the gun from me, fingers grazing mine longer than necessary.

“Well,” I say, dusting my palms against my thighs, the sting from recoil still tingling through my fingers. “It obviously helps me take my mind off things.”

Konstantin watches me with that look again, like he’s parsing every corner of my mind while keeping most of his own locked away. It should bother me. It used to. Now it just feels like us—he reads too much; I deflect too often. We meet somewhere in the middle.

“You’re good,” he says simply. His voice is low, certain. “But you will be better. If we keep this up.”

I nod, because I want to. Because I need something to fixate on that isn’t a hospital corridor or a donor list or the number of seconds it takes for Nikolai’s smile to falter when he’s too tired to hold it.

“I’ll hold you to that,” I murmur, not quite smiling.

He steps in, hand lifting slowly—not like he’s reaching for a weapon, not like he’s preparing to lecture. Just one simple motion as his fingers slide against the side of my face, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness that almost undoes me. His eyes don’t leave mine, and I don’t flinch away.

His thumb lingers a moment too long at my jaw. “I know this isn’t easy,” he says. “But you’re not alone in this.”

I nod again, throat too tight to speak.

And just like that, it feels like the world narrows to a pause. Like we’re suspended in something warmer, something that’s not survival or heartbreak or blood?—

“Konstantin.”

The voice cuts through the stillness. Lev, striding across the lawn.

Konstantin’s jaw tightens. His hand drops. I can see the irritation in the way he turns. “Can’t this wait?”

“I’m afraid not,” Lev says, tone clipped, unreadable.

Konstantin straightens. “What is it?”

Lev glances at me for half a second before answering. “Roman Buryakov is dead.”

26

KONSTANTIN