Page 17 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

He wants to breed me like some kind of possession.

He cut off a man's fingers for touching me.

And despite all of that—or maybe because of it—I've never felt safer or more wanted in my entire life. What the hell does thatsay about me? More importantly, what am I going to do about it? The answer terrifies me almost as much as the question. Because deep down, in the dark parts of myself I don't like to examine, I know I'm not going anywhere.

I'm already his.

The only question now is whether I'm brave enough to admit it.

Dimitri

She'sbeensittinginmy garden for three hours.

I watch from my office window as twilight paints her skin in shades of amber and shadow. Her long golden-brown braids catch the dying light like spun metal, and even from here, I can see the war playing out across her expressive features. The way she bites that full lower lip when she's thinking. The way her hands flutter like birds that can't decide whether to land or take flight.

She's trying to talk herself into leaving.

The thought sends something sharp and violent through my chest. My fingers drum against the windowsill—a nervous habit I haven't indulged in for an eternity. But then, she's awakened all sorts of things I thought were dead. When she finally stands and walks back toward the house, I'm already moving. By the time she reaches the foyer, I'm waiting at the base of the stairs. "Figured it out yet?" I ask, noting how she startles at my presence.

Her chin lifts in that defiant way that makes me want to pin her against the nearest wall. "I'm leaving."

"No."

The word drops like a stone in still water. Her dark eyes widen, gold flecks catching the light from the chandelier overhead. "Excuse me?"

"I said no." I move closer, watching the pulse flutter at the base of her throat. "You're not leaving."

"You can't—"

"It's for your own safety."

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My safety? From what? You?"

"From everyone who isn't me." I close the distance between us until I can smell her vanilla-and-sunshine scent. "I'm a very rich and powerful man, Amani. By now, everyone in my world will have discovered what you mean to me."

"Which is?"

"Everything."

It's a confession at gunpoint—the absolute truth. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. For once, she's not smiling, not even a hint of one in her eyes. The absence slays me. "I don't understand," she whispers finally.

"You will." I step back before I do something stupid like throw her over my shoulder and carry her to bed. "The guest room is prepared for you. Adjoining mine, but with a lock on your side. You'll be free to take as much time as you need."

"But not free to leave," she says again, but it's not a question.

"Do you really know so little about yourself? You don't want to leave any more than I'd ever let you."

"You'd keep me here by force?"

"Only if forcing you to scream my name and come over and over counts."

She studies me for a long moment, and I let her look. Let her see the monster barely leashed behind my controlled facade. Finally, she nods. "One night," she says. "I'll stay one night while I figure things out."

We both know she's lying, but I let her have the illusion. "One night."

***

The connecting door between our rooms mocks me. I've been staring at it for two hours now, listening to her toss and turn on the other side. Every rustle of sheets, every soft sigh, drives another nail into my self-control. The moonlight streaming through my windows turns everything silver and shadow, but all my mind sees is Amani. The way she looked spread across my bed that first night. The sounds she made when I burrowed inside her. The perfect fit of her body against mine, like she was carved from my rib. A soft thud from her room has me sitting up. Another rustle, the distinct sound of her getting out of bed. Pacing.

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