Page 8 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

"This is yours?" I ask Dimitri, scrubbing my palms down my worn jeans and wiping my hands over my faded black concert t-shirt, as if I can wipe away the grunge like a fairy godmother's wand.

"One of them." He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the car with gentle pressure. "Don't overthink it."

Too late. I'm already overthinking everything. The way his touch burns through the thin fabric of my shirt. The casualmention of multiple luxury vehicles. The fact that I just agreed to dinner with a man who somehow convinced my manager to let me leave early, though I have no idea what he said or did. What am I doing?

But his hand is warm and steady against my spine, and when I glance up at his profile, something settles in my chest. Those bronze-flecked eyes aren't calculating or predatory. They're... protective. Like he's already cataloging every potential threat between here and wherever we're going.

The car's interior smells like leather and something expensive I can't identify. Dimitri settles beside me, close enough that his thigh brushes mine every time we turn a corner. Close enough that I catch hints of his cologne—cedar and something darker that makes my pulse quicken.

"Where are we going?" I ask as the city blurs past outside.

"My home."

Something flutters in my stomach. Nervousness? Anticipation? Both? "You cook?"

"Among other things." His mouth curves in what might almost be a smile. "I want you at ease. Restaurants have too many... variables."

The way he says it makes me think he's not talking about food allergies or dietary restrictions. But before I can ask what he means, the car turns through massive iron gates that swing open at our approach. The house beyond takes my breath away. It's not a house—it's a fortress. Three stories of stone and steel rise from manicured grounds stretching forever. Security cameras track our progress up the winding drive. Motion-sensor lights illuminate the path with military precision."Dimitri," I breathe. "What do you do for a living?"

"Import-export."

The answer comes too quickly, too smoothly. Rehearsed. But then we're pulling up to the front entrance, and I don't have timeto analyze his evasion because the driver is opening my door, and Dimitri is offering his hand to help me out. The moment my fingers touch his, electricity shoots up my arm. He must feel it too, because his grip tightens for a second before releasing me. The front door opens before we reach it, revealing a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and eyes that miss nothing. She nods respectfully to Dimitri but studies me with open curiosity.

"Mila, this is Amani," Dimitri says. "She'll be joining me for dinner."

"Of course, sir. I've prepared the private dining room as requested."

Private dining room. Because apparently, this fortress has multiple dining rooms. I follow them through hallways lined with artwork that probably costs more than my education, trying not to gawk like the small-town girl I am. The private dining room is intimate—a table for two set with crystal and silver that catches the light from a chandelier overhead. French doors open onto a terrace overlooking gardens that disappear into darkness.

"Wine?" Dimitri asks, already moving toward a sidebar laden with bottles I'm sure I can't pronounce.

"I don't really drink."

He pauses, bottle halfway to his hand. "Water? Juice? Whatever you want."

"Water's fine."

He surprises me by setting a crystal glass of water with ice and a twist of lemon in front of me, and another one for himself. Something tells me he doesn't usually drink water at dinner, but he's matching me, and the gesture does something warm and fluttery to my chest.

"Sit," he says, pulling out my chair. "Tell me about your day."

I settle into the chair, with leather so soft it might as well be butter. He takes the seat across from me. "My day was... fine." Itake a sip of my water. How much do I want to share? "Last night was the problem."

He waits, not pushing, just giving me space to decide if I want to continue.

"My tutoring client turned out to be a creep," I finally say. "Thought he could proposition me. When I refused, he got... aggressive."

Dimitri's grip on his glass tightens almost imperceptibly, but his voice stays calm. "What happened?"

"I handled it. Knee to the groin, threatened him with my grandmother's cast iron skillet."

"Good girl."

The approval in his voice makes me laugh despite everything. "My grandma would think so."

"She sounds wonderful. I hope to meet her someday."

The casual comment gives me pause. Someday? What is he saying? I'm so far out of my depth here, sitting in this palatial dining room with a man who talks about meeting my family like we're... what? Dating? In a relationship? Before I can process that thought too deeply, Mila appears with the first course—something that smells like heaven and probably tastes even better.

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