Page 10 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

His bedroom is everything I expected and nothing I was prepared for.

A massive bed with black silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, and a fireplace crackling with warm light—everything masculine, elegant, and intimidating as hell.Oh God, am I doing this? What am I doing?A riot of butterflies just took over my stomach. I wanted him the first time I looked into his fathomless eyes. His face was a stone mask, but inside was the sweetest sadness. Darkness and light calling to me—claiming me. It can't be one-sided.

"I'm nervous," I admit, standing just inside the doorway.

"Don't be." He approaches slowly, giving me time to change my mind. "You've been so brave tonight. Be brave now."

"What if I regret it?"

"You won't." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "I swear to you, Amani. You won't regret this."

"I won't," I agree, and I mean it.

Then he's kissing me, and every rational thought disappears. His mouth is firm and demanding, coaxing responses from me I didn't know I was capable of. When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for him without hesitation. The kiss deepens, and his control slips just enough for me to feel the hunger beneath his careful restraint.

"God," he breathes against my mouth. "I've wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you. Since that first smile."

His confession sends fire racing through my veins. This man—this powerful, dangerous, beautiful man—wants me. Not some idealized version of me, but me. The works-too-hard girl with the faded jeans and dreams.

I promised myself I'd learn to live in the moment. I would teach myself to be as brave as Dimitri believed I was. My insidesfelt like I was wrestling wildcats, but I ignored the frenetic chaos and looked into his eyes.

"Show me," I whisper…

Dimitri

"Showme,"shewhispers,and the words slam into me, wrecking me.

I've imagined this moment for weeks. Fantasized about it while watching her through cameras, while listening to her laugh in the coffee shop, while lying awake at night with my hand wrapped around my cock. But nothing prepared me for the reality of having her here, willing, looking at me with those dark espresso eyes. My hands shake—actually fucking shake—as I frame her face. Twenty years of steady hands through torture, murder, and dismemberment, and this bit of a girl makes them tremble. Her warm mahogany-brown skin glows in the firelight, catching the dancing shadows in ways that make my chest constrict.

"If I make you mine," I say, voice rougher than gravel on broken glass, "you're fucking mine. I don't cheat or share. There'll be no open relationship. Once that door closes, so does any possibility of you belonging to anyone else."

Her thick, feathery lashes briefly sweep toward her high, satin-smooth cheeks. But she doesn't look away. Doesn't flinch. "Are you trying to scare me?"

I shrug, the gesture more honest than any words I could offer. "To a lot of people, I'm a scary man. But you have no reason to fear me."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. She has every reason to fear me. I'm the monster who watches her sleep, who cut off a man's fingers for touching her, who's about to ruin her for any other man who might have given her normal, safe love.

But she holds my gaze for a long moment, something shifting in those beautiful eyes. A decision is being made. Then she backs toward the bedroom door with deliberate steps, never breaking eye contact, and closes it with a soft click.

The sound echoes through my bones.

My eyes narrow as understanding crashes over me. She doesn't really comprehend what she's done—the finality of that gesture, the claiming it represents. But it's too late now. That door closing is a key turning in a lock she'll never find the key to again.

"Amani." Her name comes out as a growl. "Come here."

She approaches slowly, and I catalog every detail like evidence at a crime scene. The way her long golden-brown braids cascade past her shoulders, each strand catching firelight like it's been dipped in amber. The nervous flutter of her pulse at the hollow of her throat—rabbit-quick and visible even from here. The way her bee-sting lips, painted in soft cinnamon, part slightly as her breathing quickens.

When she's close enough to touch, I slide my hands beneath the hem of her faded concert t-shirt. The first contact of skin on skin makes us both shudder. She's silk and fire, softness over strength, and I have to clench my jaw hard enough to crack teeth to maintain any semblance of control.

The shirt comes off in one smooth motion, and then she's standing before me in just her bra and jeans, and I forget how to breathe.

God. She's perfect.

The cameras didn't do her justice. Nothing could. Her breasts strain against simple cotton—practical, like everything about her—but on her body, it might as well be the finest lingerie. I can see her nipples peaking beneath the fabric, and my mouth waters ."Don't look at me like that," she whispers, arms moving to cover herself.

I catch her wrists gently. "Like what?"

"Like you want to eat me alive."

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