Page 3 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

Even though I know it's a lie.

Amani

Ican'tstopthinkingabout him.

Three hours since our latest coffee shop encounter, and Dimitri's face keeps flashing through my mind at random moments. During Professor Martinez's lecture on child development theories. While I'm restocking sugar packets. Even now, as I trudge up the stairs to my apartment with arms full of groceries, my brain conjures those bronze-flecked eyes and that perfectly controlled mouth that never quite curves into a smile. The man is gorgeous in a dangerous, untouchable way, like a blade wrapped in expensive silk. And he looked at me like I was the only thing worth seeing in that crowded coffee shop.

My keys jangle as I fumble with the lock, grocery bags cutting into my forearms. The hallway smells like Mrs. Chen's cooking—garlic and ginger that makes my stomach growl even though I grabbed a sandwich between classes. Finally, the door swings open to my tiny apartment. Home sweet home. All four hundred square feet of thrift store furniture and clearance-rackdecorations. But it's mine. The first space that ever belonged to just me. I dump the groceries on my microscopic kitchen counter and stretch my arms above my head, working out the kinks from carrying textbooks all day.

The motion pulls my sweater tight across my chest, and for some reason, I think of how Dimitri's gaze lingered there for a moment before snapping back to my face. Heat pools low in my belly, and my core weeps. I've never had a man look at me like that—like he wanted to devour me whole. Most guys my age are still figuring out how to unhook a bra without fumbling. But there was something predatory in Dimitri's stare. Something that whispered he knew exactly what to do with a woman's body.

Stop it, Amani. The man didn't even smile at you.

But that's what makes it interesting. Most men are so easy to read. They grin and flirt and stumble over themselves trying to impress. Dimitri just... watched. Intense and unblinking, like he was memorizing every detail of my face.

I shake my head and start putting away groceries. I have bigger problems than obsessing over a stranger who probably forgot my name the second he walked out the door. Josh Brennan is coming over in an hour for tutoring, and I'd rather eat glass than spend two hours explaining basic psychology concepts to someone who thinks Freud is pronounced "fraud." When I tell him the difference, he jokes that "fraud" is appropriate.

The kid's not technically stupid—just lazy and entitled. His parents are paying me twenty-five dollars an hour to help him pass Introduction to Psychology, which is more than I make at the coffee shop. Money I desperately need if I want to avoid taking on more student loans. So, I'll smile, be patient, and pretend I don't notice how he stares at my breasts when he thinks I'm not looking.

My phone buzzes with a text from Zara.

How's the tutoring gig going? Still want to murder the rich boy?

I type back.

Ask me in three hours. May need bail money.

LOL. I got you, that's what BFFs are for. At least he's paying well. Use that money for something fun. When's the last time you bought yourself anything that wasn't textbooks or ramen?;

I wish. I still haven't bought my Soc textbook. Two hundred freaking dollars is why I'm sticking it out.

Ugh, textbooks are such a scam. But girl, you need to get laid. Great sex relieves all stress. How's tall, dark, and grumpy today? Did he stopby? Did your panties slide right off when you filled his coffee? Did you offer him your cream?

I laugh despite myself, heat rising to my cheeks.

It's not like that.

Of course it is. Why do you think he keeps coming back? And only during your shift?

I ignore that because she might have a point I'm not ready to examine.

Girl, you need to have some fun. Live and love a little. Especially LOVE.

She has a point about the fun part, though. When did I become so serious? I used to laugh more and dream bigger. Now, I spend most of my time working or studying, trying to prove I deserve the scholarship that brought me here. Maybe that's why Dimitri fascinates me so much—that, and how damn gorgeous he is. He looks like he's never doubted his place in the world for a singlesecond—like he takes what he wants and doesn't apologize for it. What would that feel like? To want something and just... reach for it?

A knock at the door interrupts my wandering thoughts. Josh, right on time. I check my reflection in the hallway mirror—hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, oversized cardigan buttoned all the way up, zero makeup except for lip balm. The picture of harmless respectability.

I open the door to find Josh leaning against the frame with what I'm sure he thinks is a charming smile. Blond hair artfully mussed, designer clothes that cost more than my rent, and the kind of confidence that comes from never hearing the word "no."

"Hey, beautiful," he says, brushing past me without invitation. "Miss me?"

I close the door and count to three. "Ready to tackle Chapter 12?"

"Actually, I was thinking we could take a different approach tonight." He settles onto my couch like he owns it, spreading his arms across the back cushions. "You know, get to know each other better. Build some... rapport."

The way he draws out that last word makes my skin crawl. "Josh, you're paying me to help you study. Let's get to it."

"Come on, Amani. Don't be so uptight." His gaze travels down my body with obvious intent. "We could have some fun first. I brought wine."

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