Page 8 of Married to the Bratva

Dark, deep, and utterly unreadable, they pin me in place like twin blades, assessing me, weighing me, already knowing things about me I don’t want anyone to see.

The intensity in them makes my pulse race. They’re the kind of eyes that see everything. Every weakness. Every secret. Every part of me I’d rather keep hidden.

He’s tall—too tall, towering over me with broad shoulders that seem to want to burst out of his clothes. Dressed entirely in black, from his perfectly tailored suit to the tattoos on his hands that hint at a man used to violence, his presence feels heavy.

It all wraps around me like a vice, squeezing, suffocating, but in a way that leaves me trembling for reasons I don’t understand.

His clothes are immaculate, yet there’s an edge to him that’s anything but polished. It’s in the way he stands, the way he carries himself—like a predator who’s been stalking prey his entire life and has never once been bested.

I shouldn’t be noticing any of this. I should be thinking about escape, about survival, about the knife I just glimpsed at his side and whether I can snatch it.

All I can think about is him. The way his presence consumes everything around him, leaving no room for air, for thought, for anything but him. He’s unrelenting, overwhelming, the kind of man who wouldn’t just break someone like me—he’d enjoy doing it.

My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I force myself to breathe. But even that feels like a concession, as though he’s allowing me this moment, letting me collect myself only because it amuses him to do so. His gaze shifts slightly,locking onto mine, and in that instant, I realize something chilling.

He knows. He knows exactly how he makes me feel.

And worse—he’s enjoying it.

“You look a lot better without the bag,” he says, his lips quirking into the faintest smile. “Want that dress to come off too? It’s ruined. You must be down ten bucks, fifteen tops.”

I glare at him, trying to ignore the heat rising to my cheeks. “You think this is funny?”

“Sit,” he replies, gesturing for me to sit in the chair behind me.

He notices my hesitation, and his eyes narrow slightly, the smirk fading. “You gave your word,” he reminds me. “You want this to get ugly?”

I sit. The chair is cold, the wood pressing into my back. He watches me for a moment, his gaze sharp and assessing.

He leans against the massive fireplace behind him. The flames flicker, casting shadows across his face, making him look even more dangerous.

“My name is Maxim Abramov,” he says.

“Maxim Abramov,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady. The name sounds dangerous, foreign. “You talk like I should know that name.”

“I know you don’t,” he says, leaning casually against the fireplace mantel, like this is a conversation between two old friends and not a kidnapping. “If you did, you’d be far more afraid.”

I cross my arms, gripping the wet fabric of my sleeves as if I can hold myself together through sheer will. “You don’t scare me.”

“I do. You’re just hiding it well.” He brushes dust from his sleeve. “You think Evan is some clean-cut investor, spending hisdays working in an office and his nights planning a future with you?”

“Don’t,” I snap, my hands curling into fists.

“Don’t what? Speak the truth?”

“Don’t act like you know anything about me or him.”

His smirk fades, replaced by a sharpness that makes my breath catch. “I know more about him than you ever will.”

He leans too close to me, eyes unblinking. “I know all about you too, Sophie. Did you really think you could get away with stealing from a man like me?”

6

SOPHIE

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “How’d you two meet?” he asks, stepping back suddenly.

“At a conference,” I reply reluctantly.

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