Page 9 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the food extraordinary and the wine he's not drinking probably worth more than my monthly rent. He asks about my classes, my dreams, and my family. I tell him things I've never shared with anyone—how I sometimes feel like I'm drowning in the weight of everyone's expectations, how I worry I'm not smart enough or strong enough to make it through school.

"I admire your strength," he says quietly. "Your grit. You don't give up, even though I'm sure it's difficult working and going to school."

"Some days I wonder if it's worth it."

"If I could do anything for you, I'd make life easy."

The words should sound creepy—they're almost exactly what Josh said earlier. But when Dimitri says them, they sound concerned. Caring. "Are you really that nice of a guy?"

He does a double-take and laughs—actually laughs. "No one but you would say that."

But I'm in shock for an entirely different reason. I finally see his smile, and it's magnificent. The transformation is complete—the hard lines of his face soften, his fawn-colored eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly he's not the intimidating stranger from the coffee shop. He's just... beautiful.

"Finally," I breathe.

He immediately tries to school his expression back to neutral, but I reach across the table before I can stop myself, placing my fingers against his lips. "No, don't stop," I say quickly. "I love it." My fingertips rest against the firm warmth of his mouth, and something shifts in his eyes. He catches my wrist gently, holding my hand to his lips as his gaze locks with mine. Then he's kissing my palm, soft and deliberate, and my breath catches. His lips trail to the sensitive skin of my wrist, then back to my palm, where his teeth nip lightly at the flesh. My next breath stutters, the quiet hitch louder than any words as he draws my index finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around the digit in a way that makes me think of things I've only read about.

I can't look away. Can't even breathe properly as he moves to the next finger, then the next, each touch deliberate, possessive, and devastating.

When he finally releases my hand, I'm trembling.

"What are you doing?" I whisper. "What do you want from me?"

Instead of answering, he turns the question back on me. "What do you want from me?"

The honest answer tumbles out before I can stop it. "I'm tired."

"Tired?"

"Tired of being the good girl. Tired of waiting for love." The words come faster now, like a dam bursting. "My grandmother was a godly woman who instilled certain values in me. But I'm tired of looking for Mr. Right."

"Don't you believe in true love anymore?"

"No." The admission feels like sacrilege, but it's true. "Instead, I'm starting to believe in rightnow. Josh showed me that maybe love doesn't exist. Only transactions. Only taking what you want and damn the consequences. Damn the future."

"Is that what made you sad? Coming to that realization?"

I nod, tears threatening. "Yes."

"That's called growing up," he says softly. "That moment when you realize you can't plan or predict the future. You can only control right here and right now. That's why you should always go for it."

"Is that what you believe? No thought of the future?"

Something passes across his face—pain so raw it takes my breath away. "My future was stolen from me a long time ago. When my mother and sister were murdered."

The casual way he says it shocks me into silence. Murdered. Not died—murdered.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, voice gentle but firm. "Don't be sad for me. That's when I learned that when I see what I want, I can't waste a minute."

"What do you want?"

His deep brown eyes burn into mine. "You."

The word hangs between us like a challenge. Like a promise. Like the answer to every question I didn't know I was asking.

I reach across the table and take his hand. "I want you too."

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