Page 30 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

I blink at them. “You think this is distracting?”

Arina grins. “Violet, if I were him, I’d be on my knees already. But hey…maybe that’s the goal.”

I roll my eyes again, trying not to blush. “Thanks, Arina.”

“Anytime, sunshine,” they say, already sauntering the other way.

I exhale and turn in the direction they pointed. The dress clings to my legs with every step, and suddenly I’m hyper aware of how quiet this house is again—of how charged it always feels when I’m about to be near him.

Kazimir.

What am I even doing?

But I keep walking toward the study anyway.

I reach the door Arina mentioned and gently push it open.

“Hello?” I call out softly.

Nothing. The study is empty. The scent of coffee and expensive cologne still lingers in the air, and sunlight streams inthrough the tall windows, illuminating the room in soft, golden streaks.

My eyes fall on the wall of books.

Rows and rows of them—leather-bound, cloth-bound, hardcovers that look ancient and delicate, others with cracked spines and gilded titles. It’s a private library. No—a kingdom. And for a moment, I forget why I even came.

I step toward the shelves slowly, almost reverently, my fingers brushing the worn edges. Dickens, Dostoevsky, Dumas. First editions, if I’m not mistaken. I inhale deeply, because this—this—is heaven. The scent of old paper, the weight of words, the hush of a room that holds a thousand stories.

My heart actually flutters.

With no one around to stop me, I pick up a copy ofJane Eyre—a personal favorite—and turn it over in my hands. The pages are buttery and delicate and smell like time. I glance around the study once more, then cross over to the massive leather chair behind the heavy desk. It creaks faintly as I sink into it, the upholstery molding to my body like a lover’s embrace.

I curl my legs beneath me, the book balanced on my lap.

I start reading.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I feel…something like peace. Even if it’s borrowed. Even if the monster I’m trying to survive owns this room.

I don’t get through more than a few pages before the door swings open. I jolt upright, the book slipping slightly in my lap.

Kaz storms in, glass of whiskey in one hand, sleeves rolled, dark eyes already locked on me like he knew exactly where I’d be. There’s a faint clink as the ice shifts in the glass, and then—

“That’s my chair,” he says.

I don’t move. I don’t blink.

Instead, I slowly close the book, smooth my palm across the cover, and look up at him with every ounce of defiance I can summon.

“Then take it back,” I say.

His brows lift, just slightly. There’s that flicker in his eyes—equal parts amused and intrigued.

He stalks toward me, unhurried, like a predator toying with its prey, but I stay right where I am. Even as he stops in front of me. Even as he leans down and grips both arms of the chair, boxing me in.

His face is so close now. Inches.

I can feel the heat of his breath. Smell the sharp smoke of his cologne. The glass of whiskey rests loosely in his fingers behind me. I should be terrified. I’m not.

“I’m not scared of you,” I whisper.