Page 88 of Bratva Bidder

I feel it—feel the way her anger twists, folds in on itself, becomes something else entirely.

My hand slips up her thigh, fingers sliding beneath the edge of her coat, just enough to make her tremble. “You’re still mine, Nadya,” I whisper against her ear.

She grips the lapels of my jacket, breathing uneven.

“You want to yell at me?” I whisper, voice low and hot against her ear. “Do it. But don’t pretend you don’t feel this.”

My hips press against hers, and I feel the sharp intake of her breath. Her hands are fisted in my jacket, like she wants to shove me away—or pull me closer.

“Konstantin…” she says, almost like a warning, but it sounds more like a plea.

“You hate me, right?” I murmur, mouth hovering over hers. “But not enough to stop thinking about last night.”

Her lips part. Her body trembles slightly against mine.

“Say you don’t want me right now.”

She doesn’t. She can’t.

I brush my mouth over her jaw—just once—and feel her shiver. Then I pull back, just enough to see her face, her lips swollen, her expression furious and wrecked with want.

“We should go,” I say roughly. “You’ve got files to collect.”

She blinks, still dazed.

“Get in the car, Nadya.”

She does, without another word. And I follow—hands still tingling from where they touched her, jaw tight with restraint. Because if I don’t drive us out of here right now, I’ll end up taking her right here in the damn parking lot.

The air inside the car is thick enough to choke on. Nadya sits beside me, arms crossed, jaw tight, her entire body radiating defiance. I can still feel the heat of her pressed against the car, the soft catch of her breath when my hand slid up her thigh. She might have shoved me off, but that desire—it’s still there. Still simmering beneath her fury.

I grip the wheel tighter, trying to focus on the road, but the tension between us hums like a live wire. I don’t say anything. Neither does she.

And then I notice it. A black SUV, two cars back. Tinted windows.

Subtle, but not subtle enough for someone like me.

I make a right.

Nadya doesn’t react.

Another right turn.

Still there.

I glance at the rearview again. They’re hanging back, just enough to think I won’t clock it. Wrong.

I take a third right. Back onto the same street we were on two minutes ago.

“They’re still there,” Nadya says quietly.

I glance at her. She’s staring into the side mirror, brows drawn, body suddenly alert. There’s no fear in her voice.

My lips twitch. Not quite a smile. More like a flicker of admiration.

“I didn’t tell you we were being followed,” I say.

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, eyes still scanning. “You’ve been watching your mirrors like a paranoid drug dealer since the first turn.”