Page 18 of Bratva Bidder

“You should get used to it,” I say quietly. “This is your life now.”

“Is that what you call it?” Her voice trembles, but she pushes past it, forcing strength into each word. “My life? Or did you mean to say my cage?”

I stop, turning fully to face her. She doesn’t shrink away like most would, doesn’t flinch, though the quick rise and fall of her chest betrays the fear she’s desperately trying to hide.

Yet she stands her ground, defiant despite everything stacked against her.

Something shifts inside me—curiosity, perhaps admiration. I’ve seen plenty of people afraid, many who faced me trembling, begging, but rarely have I encountered someone whose fear and defiance exist simultaneously, battling within them.

“You think you’re in a cage?” I ask calmly, stepping slightly closer. “Interesting way to put it.”

Her throat moves as she swallows, steadying herself before replying. “What else would you call it, when I’m bought and sold like property?”

I tilt my head slightly, studying her carefully. Her gaze doesn’t waver. “The arrangement wasn’t mine,” I remind her. “If I hadn’t bought you someone else would have.”

Her eyes drop slightly. I hate myself for throwing this in her face.

“So, you pretend that you’re a saint?”

“I pretend no such thing, sweetheart,” I say.

She flinches at that word, lifting her chin higher, the trembling nearly gone from her voice. “So if I set boundaries—if I tell you there are lines you can’t cross—what happens then? Will you respect that?”

Admiration flickers inside me again, stronger now. She knows exactly how little power she has, but she fights anyway, risking angering a man most would never challenge openly. My lips twitch, almost a smile.

“Boundaries,” I say softly, “are earned, not demanded. Prove to me you’re worth them, and perhaps I’ll grant you some.”

She huffs out a breath.

I frown slightly. I don’t understand this woman. There’s no love left for her father. That much is obvious. She didn’t cry when he walked away. She didn’t plead or protest when he tried to shake more money out of me. If anything, she looked like she wanted to punch him in the throat. So if it’s not loyalty, then what?

Does she think she owes him something?

The question sticks with me as we reach the stairs. I turn to glance at her again, and she notices.

“What?” she snaps, lifting her chin.

“You’re awfully bold for someone who just signed herself away.”

Her jaw clenches. “You’re awfully smug for someone who just bought a woman like she’s a car off a showroom floor.”

“I paid to keep you out of worse hands,” I say flatly. “You think Kirov would’ve let you walk five minutes without being touched?”

She flinches. Just barely. But I see it.

“Don’t do me any favors,” she fires back. “If I’m going to be someone’s pawn, I’d rather not be told it was charity.”

I stop walking.

She does too, pausing just a step below me on the stairs. We’re almost eye level now. Her lips are parted, her breath shallow from the climb, or maybe from the way I’m staring at her.

“You think this is charity?” I ask quietly.

She doesn’t answer.

“You think I paid fifteen million for something I pity?”

Still nothing.