Page 16 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva (Yezhov Bratva #8)

I woke up with the weight of her still bearing on my skin. Every inch of me was covered in memories from last night.

Her nails digging into my shoulders, the way she breathed my name when she lost herself, and the feeling of my dick inside her.

I didn’t dream a lot, but if I did last night…it was of her.

A low, satisfied pain lodged firm in my chest. It was a kind of black victory I hadn’t felt in years.

I threw my arm across the bed, my hand landing where she should have been.

Cold.

She wasn’t there.

I opened one eye to make sure I wasn’t stuck in a dream or something. I wasn’t. The other side of the bed was really empty. The sheets were still tangled, and her scent lingered.

But no Zoella.

A faint smile pulled at the corner of my lips. I wasn’t surprised. She’d run when she felt too much. That’s what she did.

But last night? Last night, she hadn’t run. She reached for me. Clung to me like she needed it as much as I had.

And for a man like me who built his life on control, silence, and brutality, the way she made me let go of all of it….

God.

It wasn’t a loss.

It was the one game I did not want to keep losing.

I slumped up from the bed, the sheets trailing off as I sat on the mattress’s edge, elbows on my knees. The room was quiet and still full of the scent of her.

I didn’t move an inch. Just sat there, letting it surround me. The tension. The memory. The ghost warmth where she’d curled into me hours earlier.

She’d stroked me like she hated me, but kissed me like I was everything she longed for her entire life.

And that was the worst of it because I’d never needed anyone as much.

The smell of coffee hit me first. It was bitter, burned just shy of being too much, reminding me that life downstairs went on even if I didn’t join it.

Footsteps padded quietly down the hallway. The maids, the kitchen crew, the men on guard. Familiar footsteps, trained not to tick me the wrong way.

But it wasn’t the peace of home that made me stop on the stairs. It was her. I could see her through the tall glass doors where she was standing at the back of the building.

Zoella.

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.

Then, slowly, I circled around her, both hands around hers, rearranging the angle of her fists as if I had that right.

Which I did.

Her skin was flushed from being outdoors, her pulse racing beneath her wrists.

“You’ve got too much weight in your shoulders,” I murmured, voice husky against the curve of her ear. “Keep your posture centered. Let the hips lead.”

She didn’t say a word in response, but the tension in her body was in all the right places.

I slid one hand lower, nudging her elbow, while the other hand was on her waist to center her stance.

The feel of her, the scent of her—light perfume, fresh sweat, the memories of what we did last night—everything hit me like heat under the ribs.

“You smell like last night,” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper.

She gasped.

“I can still feel you,” I went on, lips against the rim of her ear. “Tight. Wet. Clinging onto me like you never wanted it to end.”

She sucked in a breath, her back arching, but she didn’t pull away because we both knew she hadn’t forgotten.

The way she’d fucked me, the way she’d talked to me with her body long before she’d ever said a word with her mouth, and the way she gripped me like I was the only real thing she had left.

Her hips shifted, and I smiled.

“Good,” I whispered. “Use that tension. That’s how you hit harder.”

She turned her face, and I couldn’t tell if she just wanted to look at me or if a retort was about to slip through those lips of hers. But before she could utter a word, a sharp cough cut through the moment.

We both whipped around to see who it was.

A maid stood at the end of the garden path, eyes lowered, hands clasped in front of her apron.

“Excuse me, sir. Madam. Breakfast is served.”

Zoella shook her hands free from mine and stepped back as if I had burned her.

I didn’t say anything. Just stood there and let her go, fists clenched tight, back still rigid, but her ears had turned bright red.

We walked back to the house together in the sunlight, sunlight glinting off the tall windows of the estate, the stone path warm beneath my feet.

Zoella’s arms were crossed tightly, jaw set, chin held high. She was the very epitome of smug nonchalance. Still, I saw the tremble in her fingers and the flush still blooming just below the curve of her collarbone.

I leaned in, running my hand lightly over the curve of her waist. Just enough pressure to make her know that I could do so whenever I wanted.

She didn’t flinch, but she did stumble. Half a step.

“Careful,” I murmured. “You’re still a bit tender from last night, kotyonok .”

Her scowl could’ve cracked glass. “From your ego, perhaps?”

I grinned. “You didn’t seem to mind my ego last night.”

“That was…. I’m not usually that way. Last night was different, rare.”

My lips curled with a smirk at her excuse. It was amusing to watch her crack her head so badly and come up with that. “Then let’s make you cry out for it often.”

She rolled her eyes, chuckling. “Is that meant to be sexy? You’re like a Bond villain who’s run out of jokes.”

“And yet you’re staring as if you’re desperate to feel my lips on yours. I can bet even now, you’re throbbing to feel me inside you again.”

That put a halt to her, for a second.

Then she tossed a glance over her shoulder, acting smug and indifferent. “Tell yourself whatever helps you to sleep at night, Yezhov.”

“I sleep like a king.” I moved in close, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Making you scream my name helped a lot with that.”

Her breath caught, her teeth digging into her lower lips for a moment before her tongue darted out and swiped over her lips. “Asshole.”

She pushed the dining room doors open with too much force, as if she needed space from me.

I walked behind her slowly.

The table was set with silver cutlery, a white tablecloth, two mugs of hot black coffee, Nutella spread I’d never had the appetite for, and some other food I also didn’t care for.

Zoella sat down stiffly, legs crossed, face coldly serene.

I sat opposite her, arm over the top of my chair, watching her.

She took hold of her spoon, stirred her yogurt as if it had personally offended her.

“You’re staring,” she growled, avoiding my gaze.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Maybe I’m just flushed from my run this morning,” she retorted sharply.

“Or maybe from riding me like you were starving yourself,” I teased, taking her in and anticipating her reaction.

She slammed the spoon on the counter. “You’re disgusting.”

I took a sip of my coffee, ignoring the bite in her tone. “You’re not denying it. Tell me, kotyonok , how long will it take before you stop pretending you’re not drawn to me?”

We sat in silence for a moment, tension wrapping around us like steam.

She lifted her cup, eyes dancing up to meet mine. “I am not drawn to you. Last night meant nothing. It doesn’t change anything between us.”

I leaned forward slightly, elbows on the tabletop. “That’s where you’re mistaken, Zoella. It makes all the difference.”

She shot me a glare, her chest heaving with each breath she took. “I’ll have breakfast upstairs.”

Throwing two pieces of toast and an apple onto her plate, she grabbed her coffee and the Nutella and then stormed off.

I didn’t try to stop her.

She could pretend all she wanted, toss sharp words like knives, strut away like she had the upper hand, but I’d already seen what lived beneath the fire.

And it was only a matter of time before she returned, burning with desire and begging for more of what only I could offer her.