Page 49 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva

Barefoot in the garden, hair a mess of curls, standing in calf-deep wet grass with fists raised.

She threw a punch, and another.

It was sloppy. Untrained. Too wide at the shoulder, too floppy in the wrist, but determined to prove a point regardless.

Each blow snapped forward on a hard exhale. It wasn’t pretty, but real. As if she were trying to punch her way through all the things she could not say out loud.

She didn’t know I was watching or had any idea how goddamn beautiful she was in that moment.

And I stood there on the steps, arms folded, letting the morning sun creep over my skin while I observed the girl I’d broken trying to build herself again from nothing but air and rebellion.

I opened the door and stepped outside.

The grass was cool against my feet. Wet. The air was thick with dirt and citrus and something clean that didn’t belong in a house saturated with blood and death.

She didn’t catch me at first, not until I was close enough to see the glisten of sweat at her temple.

“Not bad,kotyonok,” I said, soft and even. “But you’ll break your wrist before you break a nose.”

She stopped short of a punch, and slowly, her head moved. Her eyes met mine. And all of that repressed anger came to a boil.

“Thanks for the input,” she snarled, brushing her hair back with the back of her hand. “I didn’t realize you were watching me.”

“I always watch.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping back, her fists falling to her hips. “Creepy, but not surprising.”

I smirked and kept walking toward her at the speed of a predator sizing up its prey, hands in my pockets. “You’re leading with your shoulders. That’s why you’re off-balance.”

“I’m not off-balance.”

I stopped a few feet from her. “You’re always off-balance around me.”

Her mouth opened. Then shut again.

Good. Let her feel it.

The weight of last night still lingered between us. The tension was palpable, and the way her breath hitched gave away that we still had unfinished business.

Her eyes dipped to my chest, then flicked away. “Was that a remark about my skills or my mood?” she snapped, her tone biting.

“Yes.”

She exhaled. “Figures.”

We lingered there for a moment. Sun rising. Grass cooling. Her chest rising and falling as if she’d run a mile, even though both of us knew the real toll came from what neither of us could say.

Then I said, very softly, “How do you feel about last night?’

Her breath caught. Color flew to her cheeks, high, angry, and pink. “You’re not allowed to talk about last night. You don’t have my permission to.”

I moved a step toward her. “I wasn’t asking permission.”

Before she could launch something hot my way, I closed the distance between us one step at a time, until my chest hit the line of hers.

She stopped moving.

I didn't touch her at first. Not until I could tell she felt every breath between us and saw how her shoulders tensed up.