Page 55 of Bratva Bidder

He’s not on the bed. He’s in the corner—half in shadow, one shoulder pressed against the wall, arms crossed, gaze locked on me like he’s been waiting for hours. Which he probably has.

“Jesus Christ!” I gasp, my hand flying to my chest. “Why do you move like a goddamn cat?”

Konstantin doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me from the dark like he’s trying to decide whether to touch me or kill me.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I mutter, heart racing.

He uncrosses his arms, steps into the low spill of moonlight from the window. Then he steps closer, slow and deliberate, like a man who knows he owns the floor beneath your feet.

I don’t back away, but my fingers tighten around the edge of my ruined dress, holding it together like it’s armor. I can still feel the dried sweat at my temples, the stickiness of hospital air on my skin. My body aches. My heart is still in pieces somewhere in a sterile pediatric room.

But Konstantin doesn’t know that.

He stops just in front of me, close enough that I feel the heat of him.

“You left without a word,” he says, voice low. Too calm. “While I was on the phone.”

“I had to go,” I say quietly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

His eyes narrow. Slowly, he begins to circle me, steps soundless on the wood floor. Like a storm studying its prey. “You ran.”

“I left.”

He doesn’t move away from me. Doesn’t give me room to breathe.

Instead, he stays right there, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body at my back, and I hate the way it makes my skin prickle—not from fear, but something far more dangerous.

His voice is quiet, almost lethal. “Tell me how you got out.”

I blink, recovering just enough to answer. “I walked out through the front doors.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I don’t believe that.”

I turn slowly, facing him now, forcing my expression to stay neutral. “Believe what you want.”

He’s watching me like I’m a puzzle that refuses to solve itself. His eyes flick over my face, down to my bare feet, the torn hem of my dress, the faint bruises blooming at my knees.

“I found your shoe,” he says. “By the garden wall.”

“Maybe I kicked it off.”

“Maybe you’re full of shit.”

His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. It cuts anyway.

We stare at each other, and I feel the weight of every unspoken word pressing between us like a held breath. The moment stretches—taut, breathless—until Konstantin moves.

Not away.

Toward me.