Page 43 of Bratva Bidder

A memory cuts through the haze.

Barcelona. The warm night air. His mouth on my neck, whispering sweet nothings. Me, laughing like a fool, believing it was something rare. Something worth remembering.

He didn’t even know it was me at the auction.

He looked at me and saw nothing but a product. A contract. A woman with a nice body and a famous last name. He kissed me like a stranger tonight because that’s all I am to him now.

One small, traitorous tear slips quietly down my cheek before I can stop it.

Konstantin freezes instantly, feeling it against his own skin. He pulls back slowly, his dark eyes searching mine, his breathing still uneven, lips still parted. He stares down at me, seeing something he doesn’t quite understand yet.

Without a word, he moves his lips gently across my cheek, brushing away the single tear that betrayed me. His tongue flicks out softly, tenderly, tasting the salt of my sorrow, acknowledging it, absorbing it.

I can’t look away, my heart beating painfully in my chest, my breath coming in shaky, uneven bursts.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t demand answers, or explanations, or apologies.

Instead, he lifts himself away from me, moving carefully, gently, leaving behind an emptiness that feels colder than I expected. I lie quietly on the bed, suddenly cold and vulnerable in my own skin, as Konstantin sits up slowly, running one hand roughly over his face, breathing hard.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches painfully between us until finally, he stands, adjusts his shirt,and moves toward the door. The space where his body had been is suddenly cold. The warmth he left on my skin is already fading like the rest of the fantasy I should’ve known better than to indulge.

He stands there a moment, his back to me, jaw tense. “Get some sleep,” he says softly—too softly—without looking back.

And he walks out.

Leaving me aching in more ways than one.

I sleep longer than I mean to.

When I finally crack my eyes open, sunlight is bleeding in through the tall windows, casting clean golden stripes across the hardwood floors. For a moment, I just lie there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer me answers.

But there’s nothing.

Just a dull ache behind my ribs and the ghost of his mouth between my thighs.

I don’t go downstairs. Not right away.

I shower. Dress slowly. Tie my hair back with fingers that tremble too much, then make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror.

I don’t look ruined. I don’t even look different.

But I feel it.

I feel the unraveling.

It isn’t until my stomach growls loud enough to echo through the quiet that I force myself out of the room.

The house is just as quiet as it was when I arrived—grand and cold and full of shadows that feel more like watchers than decor. The hallways are too long, the ceilings too high. The scent of coffee and something warm and buttery leads me toward the kitchen.

He’s not there.

Of course he isn’t.

I exhale in relief and take a seat at the far end of the long dining table. Someone—staff maybe—has left a tray of food out. I pick at it slowly. Eggs. Toast. A cup of coffee that’s still hot.

I barely take two bites before I hear footsteps.

I freeze.