Page 15 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

"Get dressed." He rises from the bed, magnificent in his casual nudity. "I'm taking you shopping. You need clothes. Why not make them new? Everything you ever wanted, ask and it's yours."

I want to argue more, but something in his eyes stops me. Not a threat, exactly, but absolute certainty. Like my protests are just temporary obstacles he'll overcome through sheer force of will.

Maybe he's right. Maybe my body does know something my mind doesn't. Because despite everything—the insanity of thissituation, the way he's completely claimed my life in one night—I don't run for the door.

Instead, I get dressed.

***

A week later, I'm sitting in my Advanced Psychology lecture trying to process the whirlwind my life has become. The shopping trips—plural now—have been overwhelming. Dimitri buys me things I couldn't afford in a lifetime, ignoring my protests about price tags, his hand possessive on my lower back as he guides me through stores I'd only window-shopped before.

Today, I'm wearing a designer dress that costs more than my former rent, trying to focus on Professor Williams' lecture on behavioral conditioning while my body still aches in places that make me shift uncomfortably in my seat.

"Did you hear about Josh Brennan?"

The whispered conversation behind me makes my blood freeze.

"The rich kid from Sigma Delta? What about him?"

"Girl, he's in the hospital. Someone cut off all his fingertips. Every. Single. One."

My pen slips from nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor. The girls behind me don't notice, too caught up in their gossip.

"Holy shit. When?"

"I'm not sure. I just found out yesterday. His parents are trying to keep it quiet, but my cousin works at the hospital. She said he was delirious, kept babbling about learning lessons and consent or something."

She's not sure of the date, but I am. It was the night Josh assaulted me. The night I told no one about except...

Oh God.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur. My mind races, connecting dots I don't want to connect. Dimitri's perfect timing at the coffee shop the next day. The way he knew something was wrong. His absolute certainty that I belonged to him. By the time class ends, I'm practically vibrating with a mixture of fear and fury. The car Dimitri insisted on having pick me up is waiting outside. I try to wave the driver off.

"I'll take the bus today," I tell him, already backing away.

The driver—Marcus, I think—just smiles. "Take it easy on me, Miss Greene. Mr. Ismailov would cut my head off if I returned without you."

"I don't need—"

"I have orders to take you anywhere you want to go," he continues, still smiling but firm. "But I have to take you. Boss's orders."

The way he says it—polite but absolute—tells me arguing is pointless. I slide into the backseat, my mind still reeling from what I've learned. Josh's fingers. The breeding. All of it planned, calculated, and orchestrated by a man who saw what he wanted and simply took it. By the time I storm through the front door, I'm ready for war.

"Dimitri," I shout, not caring who hears. "Dimitri, where are you?"

"In my office," his calm voice carries from down the hall.

I find him behind a massive desk, looking completely unruffled by my obvious fury. If anything, he seems amused.

"Did you do it?" I demand tossing my designer bag on his desk. "Did you cut off Josh's fingers?"

He sets down his pen and leans back in his chair, studying me with those predator eyes. The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I shift my weight from foot to foot, my teeth finding my lower lip as he continues to watch me without speaking. The way he looks at me—like he's dissecting everythought, every emotion flickering across my face—makes my skin prickle. I force myself to straighten my spine, to meet his gaze without flinching. Finally, when I think I might scream just to break the tension, he speaks.

"Yes."

The simple admission knocks me off-balance all over again. I expected deflection, denial, something other than calm acknowledgment. "You—how did you even know? Unless..." The final piece clicks into place. "You have cameras in my apartment."

"Had," he corrects. "They've been removed now that you're here."

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