Page 24 of Stolen By the Bratva

“Why would I want that?” He trailed his hand from the back of my head down along my neck. Every touch of the back of his knuckles over my flesh felt like a delicate caress that lit me up inside, feather-light and too tender. He dragged my focus from his face as I watched him trace his fingers along the neckline of my dress.

Mere inches were left between his fingers and my breasts. Just seeing him this close and almost to my nipples threw me off balance. My breath hitched, and I froze, watching and wishing he’d push the fabric down.

“Skinnier?” he retorted sarcastically. He stroked his fingers over the side of my breast, teasing me with that faint contact. “No. Skin and bones don’t appeal.”

I gulped, stuck between the urge to reach up and kiss him and breathing quickly enough.

“Prettier?” He growled softly, leaning in to nuzzle the side of my face. From my jaw to my ear, he dragged his nose and inhaled deeply. His lips brushed up my cheek with the motion, and I closed my eyes at the tickle of what he promised.

“Fuck pretty.” He kissed just below my ear. “You’re gorgeous.”

I shivered.

He brought his hand back up to trace along my neckline. “Sexy,” he added, kissing that sensitive spot beneath my ear again.

One fingertip edged beneath the fabric of my dress, and I let out a whine of need.

“And right now, you’re mine to do whatever I want with.”

Fuck that! His dominant touch was frying my senses, but hearing his cocky claim jolted me. I reared back. “Fuck off.” As I tried to take advantage of the distraction, I leaned to the side. I didn’t slip away far. He was too quick. He hadn’t lowered his guard, not at all, it seemed. His thick arm wrapped around my waist as he hauled me back to the bed.

Unlike the scene at the church, I could fight back here. I flailed and wrestled, punching and kicking for all I had. In the end, after the short scrimmage, he proved he was stronger, faster, and more determined.

Rope dug into my wrists with the bindings he’d strung there. Over my mouth rested a slim strip of fabric he’d ripped from my wedding dress. Ribbons weren’t supposed to be gags, but Alek was resourceful enough to use whatever was on hand.

Tied to the bed frame, muted with a gag, I fumed and glared at him, praying he could see the hatred in my eyes. If he did, he didn’t show it. Instead, as I screamed my frustration in my mind, he stood and brushed off his shirt, fixing himself from the scuffle.

“You’re not going anywhere, Mila. The faster you come to terms with that, the better.”

Another man telling me what to do. I was sick of it. And I vowed to never obey a single damn thing he said.

11

ALEK

She sat there glowering and fuming. Her cheeks were pink when I kissed her, but now, as she eyed me with such beautiful fury, she was ravishing. That blush deepened with anger. Those bold blue eyes radiated with such fire. She was breathtaking, alive with this rage.

Fuck, is she something else.

I couldn’t remember a time I’d ever been so drawn to, so mercilessly hungry for a woman. No one compared. But I knew better than to try to get closer. She couldn’t hurt me. That gag prevented her from biting me, and with her hands bound to the headboard, she wouldn’t get far in attacking me. Mila wasn’t going anywhere, and the only good option that remained for me was to let her stew and simmer.

She could hate me as much as she wanted, but only if she could admit why. Sure, she was pissed. I expected that much. I had kidnapped her, after all. But she’d be a liar if she told me she was upset to miss out on marrying Andrey. If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I would’ve missed the slight glance to the side she did when I challenged her. When I asked if she wanted me to take her back to that wedding, she couldn’t reply in the affirmative.

Because she hadn’t wanted to get stuck with him. She hadn’t wanted to marry him. I’d done her a fucking favor getting her out of there, and until she could agree with me on that point, I didn’t want to waste my breath.

She fidgeted, testing the bindings at her wrists. After she pulled and tugged, grunting at the effort to wrestle out of the secure grips, she winced and dipped her face to look at her arm.

“Don’t fight it.” I stepped back to the bed, chancing this proximity to examine her arm again. If she resisted and kept at this, she’d only worsen that wound. Her shoulder tensed as I grabbed her arm and lifted it to see the gauze. As she wriggled to wrench out of my hold, I grinned.

Sassy, stubborn little fighter.

The fabric was still white, not pink or red with new bleeding, and I felt good about her injury. She was awake, no longer worrying me about her state of consciousness. She was alert and not in pain?—

Her stomach growled.

I eyed her sternly, debating the wisdom of taking that gag off. “Behave.”

She furrowed her brows as I stepped away.

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