Page 22 of Bratva Bidder

When we reach the dining room, Konstantin is already sitting at the head of the long table, a newspaper folded neatly beside his coffee, a half-empty plate in front of him.

He looks up when I walk in. One brow lifts slightly, the only sign he even notices the wrinkled blouse and yesterday’s jeans. But he doesn’t comment.

Of course he doesn’t.

He gestures wordlessly to the chair across from him, and I sit stiffly, keeping my eyes down as a maid sets a plate in front of me—eggs, toast, a small bowl of cut fruit. My stomach twists again, not from the food, but from the thought of Nikolai and Mila. Are they eating right now? Did they sleep okay last night? Is Mila still clutching her stuffed rabbit the way she always does when she misses me?

I stare at the food, appetite nowhere in sight.

“Eat,” Konstantin says, his voice low and firm. “You’re too frail.”

I glance up, sarcasm slipping out before I can stop myself. “Right. Got to fatten the sacrificial pig before the slaughter.”

His mouth twitches at the corner, almost a smile, but not quite.

I push the food around my plate, pretending to eat. Every so often, I feel Konstantin’s gaze on me, patient, like he’s waiting for something. I take a sip of water just to buy time, the silence pressing down harder with every second.

Finally, I set my fork down and glance up at him. “So,” I say lightly, keeping my tone casual. “Do you make a habit of buying women at auctions, or was last night just…a special occasion?”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. “I don’t make a habit of anything.”

“Right,” I murmur, tapping my finger against the edge of the plate. “Of course not. That would be too human of you.”

He leans back in his chair, studying me with an expression that’s a little too amused. “You’re braver than most.”

“Or stupider,” I say under my breath.

“I didn’t say that,” he replies smoothly. “Yet.”

I cross my arms loosely over my chest, not bothering to hide my glare. “What exactly do you plan to do with me? Since you were willing to throw a small fortune around to make sure no one else could.”

He sips his coffee, completely at ease. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“Great,” I say, voice dry. “Maybe you can hang me on the wall next to your collection of overpriced art.”

“If I wanted a decoration,” he says, setting the cup down neatly, “I’d have bought someone who didn’t look like she was about to stab me with a butter knife.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” I shoot back. “Would’ve been safer for everyone.”

He laughs quietly, almost under his breath. Not mocking. Just…like he genuinely finds me funny. It annoys me more than if he had insulted me.

I look back at the food I have no intention of touching. “You paid a lot of money for something you don’t even have a use for,” I mutter.

“Not everything is about use,” he says, almost thoughtful.

“No,” I say, lifting my gaze back to him, “sometimes it’s just about ownership.”

He doesn’t argue that. He just watches me, the silence stretching until I feel like maybe I said too much.

“If you really do want to know the truth, here it is. You’re to be my wife.”

He says it so casually, as if he’s reading me the weather report.

I stare at him, my mouth opening and closing once before I manage to find any words. “Your wife,” I repeat slowly, like maybe if I say it out loud it’ll make more sense. “You’re joking.”

Konstantin leans back in his chair, reaching lazily for his coffee cup again, completely at ease. “I’m not joking.”

“Marriage wasn’t part of the contract,” I snap, my pulse hammering harder now. “I agreed to…to work for you, whatever that means. Not this.”