Page 21 of Bratva Bride

“And you act like I’m supposed to just sit back while you move pieces I can’t see.”

“Because you won’t look, Konstantin!” Her voice rises, drawing a glance from a nearby father, but she doesn’t care. Neither do I. “You’re so obsessed with doing things your way, you’ve stopped seeing what’s right in front of you.”

“And what is that exactly?” I ask.

“You really want to do this here?”

“I want to know what the hell you’re doing.”

She turns to face me, her body angled just slightly—like she’s preparing to spring or to strike. “You don’t trust me.”

I laugh under my breath. “I don’t even know what you are to me anymore.”

Her eyes flash. “And whose fault is that?”

I shift closer, tension flaring behind my ribs. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“You think your paranoia is insight? That your silence is strategy? Mila almost got taken, or have you already shoved that out of your head?”

My jaw tightens. “Don’t bring her into this.”

“She’s the reason I’m doing any of this,” she says, voice rising. You want to talk trust? You haven’t even told me where you went last week.”

I go still.

She leans in, voice cold. “You think I didn’t notice?”

I look at her. Really look. The flush in her cheeks, the storm in her eyes. Her lips are parted, breathing fast.

She’s fire and fury and heartbreak, and God help me, I want her.

But not like this. Not now.

She sees it too—the way my eyes drop to her mouth. The way my hand twitches toward hers and stops. A beat passes between us, stretched and tight.

“We’re wasting time,” she says finally, the words a blade. “If you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.”

I stand slowly. “You know where to find me.”

She doesn’t respond, and I don’t look back.

Maksim catches me before I’ve made it ten steps. He’s standing near the drinks table, wearing a blue cone-shaped party hat with crooked stars on it. The elastic strap digs slightly into his jaw, making him look more like a disgruntled birthday clown than a man I trust to cover me in a firefight.

He gives me a solid punch on the arm—not painful, but enough to let me know he noticed. “What the hell was that about?”

I don’t answer right away. I grab one of the paper cups filled with juice, swirl the orange liquid around like it’s a glass of scotch, and mutter, “I need something stronger.”

Maksim raises a brow. “This is a kids party.”

“Exactly,” I say, and knock it back anyway.

He looks past me, toward where Nadya’s directing two of the staff to move a balloon arch closer to the photo table. Her expression is unreadable from here, but I know she’s still pissed. I’m still pissed. And worse—I’m still wired from the heat of that argument. The words, the proximity, the silence at the end of it.

Maksim follows my line of sight and snorts. “You two fight like you’re either about to rip each other’s clothes off or rip each other apart. Never can tell which.”

I glance at him. “You wearing that hat voluntarily?”

He smirks. “Mila made me. She threatened to cry.”