Page 4 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

He produces a bottle from his backpack—expensive-looking label that probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget. As if alcohol will magically make me interested in his wandering hands and entitled attitude.

"I don't drink during tutoring sessions," I say firmly, moving to the kitchen table where I've laid out textbooks and notes. "We have a lot to cover if you want to pass the midterm."

Josh doesn't follow. Instead, he stays sprawled on my couch, studying me with a lazy smile. "You know what your problem is? You're too wound up. Too focused on all this academic stuff." He waves dismissively at my carefully organized study materials. "You need someone to help you relax."

The condescension in his voice makes my teeth clench. "And your problem is that you're failing a class that most students pass in their sleep. Now, do you want my help or not?"

Something shifts in his expression. The easy charm disappears, replaced by something harder. Uglier. "I'm trying to be nice here, Amani. The least you could do is meet me halfway."

"Nice would be respecting the boundaries I've set. This is a tutoring session, not a date."

"Maybe it could be both." He stands and takes a step toward me. Then another. "You can't tell me you haven't thought about it. A smart, beautiful girl like you... stuck in this tiny apartment, working minimum-wage jobs. I could change all that."

My heart starts beating faster, but not from attraction. It's from the instinctive recognition of danger, the way he's positioning himself between me and the door, and the calculating look in his eyes as he evaluates my reaction.

"I think you should leave," I say, proud that my voice stays steady.

"Don't be like that." Another step closer. "I'm offering you an upgrade. Designer clothes, nice dinners, maybe help with those student loans. All you have to do is be... friendly."

The word drips with implication, and my stomach churns. This was never about tutoring. He saw a working-class girl struggling to make ends meet and decided I'd be grateful for his attention. Available for the right price.

"Get out." The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don't care. "Get out of my apartment. Now."

Josh's face darkens. The mask of civility finally slips completely. "You know what? Forget it. You're not even that pretty. Just another mid bitch who doesn't know her place." He moves toward the door, and I exhale, relaxing my shoulders. But instead of leaving, he stops and turns the deadbolt lock with a cruel smile.

"Maybe you're the one who needs to learn a lesson. Learn how to be more... accommodating. I've met girls like you before. Ones who needed to be taught what they need."

Then he lunges. His hands grab my shoulders, pushing me backward against the kitchen counter. His mouth crashes against mine—wet, demanding, tasting like arrogance and rage. I twist away, but he's stronger, heavier, pinning me with his body weight.

"Stop fighting," he pants against my ear. "Just let it happen. You know you want this."

Terror and fury war in my chest. But underneath both emotions, something else rises. Something fierce and unbreakable that my grandmother planted in me years ago.Never let anyone make you smaller than you are, baby girl. You've got fire in your blood. Use it.I bring my knee up hard and fast. Josh doubles over with a strangled cry, hands cupping himself as he stumbles backward. The expression on his face cycles through pain, shock, and rabid fury in rapid succession.

"You bitch!" he snarls. "You have no idea who you're messing with. My father—"

"Can kiss my ass along with you," I snap, adrenaline making me bold. "Touch me again and I'll do worse than bruise your ego."

For a moment, we stare at each other across my tiny kitchen. Josh's breath comes in sharp pants, his face flushed with humiliation and anger. I grab my grandma's cast-iron skillet, heart hammering, and raise it like a sword.

Finally, he straightens and adjusts his clothes with shaking hands. "This isn't over," he says quietly. Too quietly. "You think you're so smart, so independent. We'll see how long that lasts." Then he leaves, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

I stand frozen for several heartbeats, waiting for my legs to stop shaking. When they finally cooperate, I rush to lock the deadbolt and slide the chain into place. Then I sink onto my couch and bury my face in my hands. I handled it. I protected myself. Josh got the message loud and clear.

So why do I still feel like something's crawling under my skin? I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over my mother's number. But what would I tell her? That I'm fine? That I can take care of myself? She already worries enough about me being so far from home.

Instead, I text Zara:

Tutoringcanceled. Josh turned out to be a creep. I'm fine, but need ice cream and bad movies.

Her response comes back immediately:

OMG what happened? Want me to come over? Want me to track him down with a meat cleaver?

Tomorrow. Tonight I just want to be alone.

Okay but call if you need anything. And Mani? Proud of you for standing up for yourself. You're stronger than you know.

I smile despite everything. Zara always knows exactly what to say.

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