Page 30 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva

“Did you like the show?” she snapped, voice strained, not looking around. “Standing there like you didn’t just buy a bride over whiskey and threats.”

I leaned back against the wall, saying nothing. Only watching her as she rid herself of the extra accessories she had on.

“Go on,” she snapped. “Say something. Remind me again that I’m yours now, bought, sold, and gift-wrapped for your convenience.”

I pushed off the door slowly and deliberately, each step calculated as I prowled toward her.

Just like I expected, she didn’t back away, yet her chin rose a fraction of an inch more, as if she had the defiance between her teeth.

“Is that what you believe I see when I look at you?” I asked.

She sneered. “I don’t care what you see.”

“Liar.” I reached her, and my hand rose, slowly enough for her to slap it aside if she wished, but she didn’t. And I knew it wasn’t because she was afraid of me. She wasn’t.

She was the only woman who didn’t fear me, and to be honest, I found it amusing.

I gripped her jaw, my hand sliding over the silk-soft warmth of her cheek and relishing the shudder in her flesh that she didn’t want me to sense.

And there it was, the pulse at her neck, the slight flare of her nostrils when she inhaled, and the war behind her eyes.

She wanted to fight.

She needed to win.

But under all that fury, something darker simmered. Something curious and sinful.

“I see you. Every piece you try to hide.” I lowered my lips to hers. “I know what you’re afraid of.”

My lips clashed against hers in a searing kiss. It was rough, possessive, and ravenous.

Her hands pushed feebly against my chest, her mouth a hard line of resistance. But I didn’t let up; I deepened our kiss, my tongue prying her lips open with merciless patience.

Her breath caught.

Only once.

That was all it took.

Her fingers closed, clenched around my jacket as she leaned into my kiss. She wasn’t pushing me away; she was pulling me closer, needing more as she started to kiss me back.

The kiss slowed, changed from war to something else—something darker and a little more desperate.

Hungrier.

As if I were savoring each of her words she never got to utter.

When I broke our kiss and stepped back, her lips were redder than her wedding bouquet, her eyes stormy and shocked, but she didn’t move.

She didn’t talk, and for the first time since our engagement, she didn’t try to run away from me.

I didn’t give her the chance to catch her breath.

The kiss had opened something, not only in her, but also in me.

She tasted of fire, of rebellion, and something I wanted to destroy slowly.

I stepped closer again, and she instinctively backed away—one small, reflexive step—until the backs of her knees bumped into the bed.