Page 7 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

"I can't. I'm working."

"You need to sit down," I repeat, voice sharp with barely controlled irritation. "Now."

She shakes her head, forcing that brittle smile back into place. "Really, I'm fine. I just—"

"How much?"

The question stops her mid-sentence. "What?"

"How much do they pay you per hour? I'll cover your shift."

Her entire demeanor changes in an instant. The fragile vulnerability disappears, replaced by a flash of anger that would make me proud if it weren't directed at me.

"Excuse me?" She straightens to her full height, chin lifted in defiance. "What is wrong with men? You can't just buy women."

I give her my coolest stare—the one that's made grown men piss themselves in terror. But Amani doesn't back down. If anything, her spine gets straighter.

When she finally takes a breath, I speak quietly. "In my world, women are often for sale. But that's not what I meant."

The anger flickers, uncertainty replacing it.

"I apologize," I continue. "I only wanted you comfortable, because I miss your beautiful smile."

The words work like magic. Her expression softens, and for a moment, something like her real smile appears. But it's a flawed copy. Still dimmed by whatever's eating at her.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "That's still not right."

She blinks, confused. "Let me take you out of here." I keep my voice low, intimate. "We can go to dinner, and you can tell me what's wrong."

"I..." She glances around the coffee shop, then back at me. "I don't even know you."

I lean forward slightly, letting her feel the full weight of my attention. "You know me. You trust me, or you wouldn't be standing here talking to me."

The truth of it settles between us like a living thing. She does trust me, even if she can't explain why. Even if every logical part of her brain is screaming warnings.

After a long moment, she nods slowly. "Okay. But I need to finish my shift first."

"Take off your apron."

"But—"

"I'll handle it."

I walk to the manager's office in the back—a thin man with nervous eyes who clearly recognizes expensive trouble when he sees it. The conversation takes thirty seconds and costs me five hundred dollars—I would have paid five thousand.

When I return, Amani is standing exactly where I left her, apron clutched in her hands like a security blanket.

"Ready?" I ask.

She looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those dark eyes. Then she nods.

"Ready."

Amani

Thecarwaitingoutsidethe coffee shop isn't what I expected.

I'm not sure of its exact model, but even I recognize that distinctive logo on the front—two R's intertwined like a promise of luxury I've only seen in movies. The black SUV gleams under the streetlights, windows so dark I can't see inside. A driver in an expensive suit holds the back door open, face blank and professional.

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