Page 44 of Bound By the Bratva

The certainty in his voice, the absolute conviction, makes something twist uncomfortably in my stomach. "You sound like a man who's already seen the outcome."

"I sound like a man who knows horses. And I know my business." His mouth curves in what might charitably be called a smile. "Did you really think I would stake my son's future on something as unreliable as chance?"

"I thought you would honor our agreement."

"I am honoring it. The terms were clear—if your horse wins, you go free. If mine wins, you stay." He moves closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I never said anything about making it a fair fight."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Not because they're surprising—some part of me has always known he would never let this be truly fair—but because hearing him say it so casually, so matter-of-factly, confirms my worst fears.

"You're going to cheat." It's not a question.

"I'm going to win. There's a difference."

"Not to me."

"Then you're more naive than I thought." The mockery in his voice, the casual cruelty of it, makes my vision blur with rage. "Did you honestly believe you could outplay me? You, who grew up watching your father piss away everything he touched at poker tables and racetracks? You thought you could somehow outwit a man who's been running games since before you could walk?"

The glass is in my hand before I realize I've picked it up, and then it's flying through the air toward his head.

He ducks, of course. The crystal shatters against the wall behind him in a cascade of amber liquid and glittering shards. The sound is satisfying in a way that makes my teeth ache.

"Feel better?" he asks, straightening his tie as if I've done nothing more interesting than comment on the weather.

"Go to hell."

"Already there, Princess. And I'm taking you with me."

He starts toward me again, and I know I should run, should turn and flee this room, this house, this man who seems determined to own every piece of my soul. Instead, I stand my ground, chin lifted, meeting his gaze with all the defiance I can muster.

"If you're so certain you're leaving," he says, stopping just close enough that I have to crane my neck to look at him, "you should take what you want before you're gone."

The words hit me like a physical force. Because he's right, isn't he? Tomorrow night, I'll watch my horse lose, and the day after that, I'll sign whatever papers he puts in front of me, and then what? Then I'll spend the rest of my life in this house, raising our son, sleeping in a bed down the hall from the man who owns me in every way that means anything.

But tonight? Tonight, I could take something for myself.

I kiss him.

It's not gentle or tentative or any of the things a first kiss should be. It's desperate and angry and full of six years of wanting what I can't have. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him down to me, and he responds immediately. His arms come around me, one hand tangling in my hair while the other spans my waist, and suddenly, I'm pressed against him from chest to thigh.

He tastes like whiskey and something uniquely him, something that makes my head spin worse than the alcohol. His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that matches my own, taking and giving in equal measure. When his teeth catch my lower lip, I gasp, and he uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss until I'm drowning in the taste of him.

This is madness. This is exactly what he wants, what he's been waiting for since the moment I walked back into his life. But I can't bring myself to care. Not when his hands are mapping the curve of my spine with reverent fingers, not when he's walking me backward until my shoulders hit the wall.

"Anya." My name is a growl against my throat as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. His stubble scrapes against my neck, rough and masculine in a way that makes me shiver. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

I can't answer because his mouth is doing things that make coherent thought impossible. His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, skimming down my sides, tracing the neckline of my dress with a reverence that makes my breath catch. Each touch is deliberate, calculated to drive me higher.

"Six years," he murmurs against my collarbone, his lips trailing fire across my skin. "Six years I've thought about this. About you. About how you tasted, how you felt beneath me."

"Don't." The word comes out breathless, barely audible. "Don't make this about that weekend."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my chest tight. "What else would it be about?"

"This. Now. Not the past."

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "The past is what brought us here."

"The past is what destroyed us."

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