Page 19 of Bratva Bidder

My hand lifts before I fully register what I’m doing. I reach up, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, then let my fingers trail down the side of her neck. Her skin is warm. Her pulse is racing.

She holds her ground.

“You should learn when to stop talking,” I say, my voice low.

“And you should learn how to take no for an ans?—”

I don’t let her finish. I grab her jaw and kiss her—hard.

It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s possession wrapped in heat, a kiss that dares her to push me away and knows she won’t. Her lips part in shock and I take advantage immediately, my tongue sliding against hers, deep and demanding.

She stiffens for half a heartbeat, fingers bunched in my shirt as if she can’t decide whether to shove me away or drag me closer; then she tips forward and kisses me back with a fierce, reckless hunger. Her body presses to mine, the soft curve of her chest meeting the solid line of my torso, and every point of contact lights up—heat rolling off her in waves, matching the thrum in my veins. I angle her jaw, deepening the kiss, swallowing the small, startled sound she makes when my teeth catch her lower lip.

I slide my free hand down her side—waist, hip, thigh—memorizing the shape of her in one slow pass while her tongue tangles with mine, hot and slick and daring.

She’s the one who tears her mouth from mine, pulse shuddering under my thumb, breath coming in quick, uneven pulls thatleave her lips parted and glossy. For a second she just stares, as if surprised by her own reaction. Then she drags in air like it’s suddenly scarce in the hallway.

I keep my palm cupped around the side of her throat, thumb resting on the wild beat under her skin, and make sure my face stays flat and calm even though I’m hard enough to leave a dent in Italian wool.

I let the silence drag until her breathing turns almost normal again and the flush fades from her cheeks. The longer I say nothing, the more that pulse under my thumb stutters, because she can’t decide if I’m about to kiss her again or order guards to carry her off.

Finally, I lower my hand, smooth my jacket sleeve as if all I’ve done is adjust a cuff, and give her a slow, unhurried once-over. “That,” I say, voice steady, “was a reminder. Don’t test me unless you’re prepared for the result.”

Her eyes flash, but she doesn’t have an answer ready; she’s too busy breathing, skin flushed, teeth catching her swollen lower lip like she’s angry at it for betraying her.

I step back, straighten my jacket, and nod toward the upper landing. “Guest wing is this way. Lev will show you to your room.”

I don’t let my expression crack until I’m out of sight and the heavy door to my study closes behind me.

5

NADYA

The roomthey give me is bigger than the entire apartment I shared with my kids.

The walls are a soft shade of cream, the ceiling tall and detailed with crown molding so intricate it looks like it belongs in a palace. A massive king-size bed sits at the center, dressed in layers of thick, expensive-looking bedding that probably cost more than three months of my rent back home.

There’s a sitting area near the window, two high-backed chairs angled toward a marble fireplace that isn’t lit, and a huge armoire standing against the far wall like something pulled straight out of an old European estate.

Everything smells faintly of clean linen and new wood polish. Nothing feels lived-in. It’s all too perfect, too controlled.

I set my bag down on the small settee near the bed and sit there for a long time, my hands limp in my lap. I’m not used to this kind of luxury. I don’t belong here, surrounded by things that could buy my freedom ten times over if sold off piece by piece.

I keep telling myself that I’m fine, that this is just a place, just another gilded cage, and I’ll figure out how to survive it like I always do. But the opulence unsettles me. It’s too much. Too soft. I don’t belong here, and every inch of the room makes sure I remember it.

I try to sleep. I really do.

But every time I close my eyes, my mind spins, looping back to the same two things—the faces of my children…and the feel of Konstantin’s mouth on mine.

It keeps replaying in vivid, unwanted detail—the brutal heat of Konstantin’s mouth on mine, the way his hands framed my face, steady and sure, the hard pressure of his body against mine as if he was daring me to push him away.

I should hate him for it. I should hate myself for letting it happen.

Instead, my skin still feels hypersensitive, my lips bruised, my heart pounding every time I so much as blink and the memory rushes back.

I don’t understand it.

I don’t want to understand it.