Page 6 of Sold to the Bratva
I laugh. Not because I doubt her, but because I believe every word. She has fire in her, and I relish it. I turn my gaze to Oleg and Viktor.
“You have yourself a deal.”
3
KATYA
The door clicks shut behind my father and Oleg, the finality slamming down like a prison gate. The sharp echo reverberates in my ears, and the walls seem to squeeze inward. This is the moment I’m no longer just a girl with a bright future. Now I’m merely Isaac Kozlov’s future wife.
I grit my teeth until my jaw throbs and remain glued to the oversized leather chair across from Isaac’s desk, staring at the dark wood grain as though it might split open and swallow me whole.
He stays silent, offering no ‘Are you okay?’ or hollow promise that everything will be fine. Of course he doesn’t. From what I’ve heard, Isaac Kozlov doesn’t do gentle. This is business and nothing else.
He strolls around the desk and props himself against the edge in front of me, arms folded, ankles casually crossed. He doesn’t exactly loom, yet he still manages to occupy every inch of the room.
I hate that I notice how perfectly his shirt skims his chest and forearms, as if it had been sewn onto him, hinting at hard strength beneath. I hate that he smells of expensive soap and crisp linen, undeniably masculine, and that the scent makes my pulse stutter.
He’s hot as hell, which does nothing to cool my disdain. He won’t be my husband. In a few days, he’ll beg my father to cancel the arrangement. When I’m finished with him, he’ll rue the day he met me.
For now, he watches me as if he has all the time in the world, and I sit as still as marble, refusing to flinch under his gaze.
“Your father and Oleg,” he says finally, his voice a smooth, dangerous rumble, “make interesting business partners.”
I scoff. “Business is life after all, isn’t it?”
Typical. He’s no different from my father. I’m just a piece in their never-ending chess match.
He lifts a brow, amused. “Would you prefer ‘negotiation’? ‘Alliance’? ‘Peace treaty sealed with a bride’?”
I glare at him, jaw tight. “You don’t need to dress it up. You bought me.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” he says, calm and unbothered. “But I don’t say no to opportunities that fall into my lap.”
I cross my legs and lean back in the chair, folding my arms across my chest like armor.
“You think I’m an opportunity,” I say. “In the five minutes since you found out about this, you’ve probably calculated a dozenways you can use me to your advantage. Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m no one’s possession.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingers too long, not lasciviously, but with the same tactical sharpness he wore when the men were in the room, as though he’s weighing me on an internal scale.
“I don’t doubt that,” he finally concedes. “But you’re definitely a complication.”
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”
He lets out a low, rough chuckle. “Oh, I have no intention of lying to you. I’m just trying to decide if you’re as difficult as you look.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“You made quite the entrance,” he continues, undeterred. “Stormed in, insulted your father, insulted me, and then announced you’d make my life hell. You don’t strike me as someone content to play the part of a quiet, dutiful wife. But I wonder, are you all bark?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. “Trust me, my bite is plenty sharp,” I say, the words spat like poison. “And I have absolutely no intention of being your wife.”
“Trust me,printsessa, I gathered that.” He chuckles.
The way he says it,printsessa,soft and sardonic, makes the Russian endearment scrape against my ears like a rusty key. I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs.
“Let me save us both some trouble,” I say so quietly he’s forced to lean closer. “I don’t care what deal was made. I don’t carewhat peace you think this marriage will bring. I won’t be sweet, obedient, or polite. I won’t smile at your men or stay in your bed. I won’t pretend this is anything but a farce.”
He blinks once. Slow. Then straightens, uncrossing his arms and pushing off the desk. He takes a few steps toward me, measured and silent. My heart stutters, but I don’t show it. I won’t.
