Page 23 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

Aleksei.

I unlock the screen with one hand, keeping the other still stroking her softly, already missing the taste of her warm juices.

Intercepted a message meant for Clara. Delivered to the gates by hand. You need to see it. It’s from him.

A cold blade slides through my chest.Fuck.

Raymond.

Of course it’s him.

I slide my fingers gently from Clara’s body and kiss her sweet mound.

She stirs, dazed and pliant. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I lie, voice smooth. “Just business.”

I pull on my clothes, fast and quiet. She watches me from the bed, flushed and confused, eyes heavy with afterglow and something fragile.

“Are you coming back?”

“Yes,” I say. “Soon.”

I don’t kiss her before I go.

Because if what I think is in that messageis… I might not come back calm.

And I don’t want her to taste the war rising in me.

Clara

I roll slowly onto my side, limbs heavy and loose, the faint ache between my legs the only proof that the last few days have been real. My body is tender, but not sore in the way that frightens me. I ache in the way you do after something good. After something worth remembering.

His scent clings to the sheets, and I bury my face in the pillow for a moment, just breathing it in. It’s ridiculous, but I already miss him. I’ve never been the kind of girl who missed anyone, let alone a man who takes up every room he walks into and fills it with heat and danger. But with Maksim, everything feels different. Bigger. Real.

Today, I’m supposed to meet with the notary. By the end of the afternoon, I’ll no longer be Clara Donahue, daughter of Raymond Donahue. I’ll be Clara Vasilieva. Maksim’s wife. The papers will be signed, filed, and sealed, and there will be no going back. Then a party or something to celebrate. Maybe I’ll finally meet his brothers.

The thought of becoming his wife doesn’t terrify me the way it should.

I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, the silk of his sheets slipping away like water. My bare feet press into the warm wood floor, and I pause there for a long moment, letting the weight of what this day means settle over me.

I’m getting married.

Not in a church. Not in front of guests. Not in a dress or with flowers in my hair.

But married all the same.

To a man who terrifies most people with a single look.

To a man who holds me like I’m something sacred.

I pad across the room, still naked, still marked. The mirror above the dresser catches my eye, and I pause, surprised by the woman looking back at me. My lips are swollen, my hair is a mess, and there are more bruises blooming at my hips, evidence of where he held me too tightly yesterday and last night, where he pulled me against him like I was his only tether to sanity.

But what surprises me most isn’t the marks. It’s theglow. The softness in my eyes. The pink flush still clinging to my skin. I look radiant. Like someone who’s been loved. Worshiped.

Maybe I have.

Maybe I am.

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