Page 1 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
Ivor
The music is soft, lilting, and sounds expensive. A string quartet tucked into the shadows of the ballroom plays as if they’ve never known any other life, while masked guests drift across the marble floor in a blur of couture and diamonds. Laughter clinks like crystal. Perfume and champagne hang thick in the air, heady enough to choke those of us who aren’t drunk enough to be intoxicated by it.
And still, all I taste is resentment.
My father’s words snap through me like a whip every time I look around this room.Find a wife. Breed an heir. Or I’ll pass everything to your cousins.
Cousins who circle like vultures, already eyeing my territory, whispering among themselves as though I’m already buried six feet under. They’re here tonight too, in their own gilt masks, smug and hungry. They’ve always hated me for being the son who carried my father’s name, for being the one expected to inherit it all. They’d kill for this empire. They’ll smile to my face, toast to my health, and dream of driving a knife through my back.
And now my father, in all his wisdom, hands them the very weapon they crave. If I don’t pick a wife tonight, my birthright becomes theirs.
I curl my hand tighter around my tumbler of vodka. The ice clinks. My mask, silver gilt, sharp at the cheekbones, hides my scowl but does nothing to ease the tension in my jaw.
Women move toward me like moths to a flame, each one simpering, swaying, desperate to be chosen. Their voices blur together: compliments, promises, empty laughter. They don’t see me. They see the promise of power and wealth.
I could close my eyes, pluck one at random, and she would bend. Spread her thighs, give me a child, smile at my side even though she would feel just as dead inside. Just as bored.
I want a challenge. A woman who doesn’t fall at my feet simply because of the name I carry. Someone who makes me work, bleed, maybe even burn. My father doesn’t understand that. He thinks obedience makes a good wife. But obedience is suffocating.
The music swells. Couples glide past in a sweep of satin skirts and glittery masks. My gaze drifts from painted lips to manicured hands, searching for something, anything, that doesn’t reek of desperation.
And then—
I see her.
She stands apart, near one of the gilded pillars, a glass of champagne untouched in her hand. Her mask is simple, black lace that looks chosen for function, not vanity. Blonde hair pulled back, though a few strands have escaped to frame her face. She isn’t laughing, isn’t preening for attention. She’s watching.
Eyes sharp behind that mask, scanning the crowd as if she’s cataloguing secrets.
Not a moth. A hawk.
My pulse kicks, unexpected. She doesn’t belong here. Her dress is elegant, yes, but not couture. She holds herself differently. Less like prey, more like a predator trying to pass as one of the herd.
I smile into my glass.
Interesting.
I move through the crowd, deliberate, the way I stalk enemies across a chessboard. A woman in crimson tries to intercept me, pressing her hand to my arm. “Ivor…” she purrs, voice muffled behind a jeweled mask. I don’t slow, don’t spare her a glance. My stride is for one woman alone.
When I reach her, she pretends not to notice me. Pretends she’s absorbed in the swirl of dancers. That little pretense only makes my blood hum louder.
I step close enough for her to feel my shadow fall across her. “You know,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear, “the whole point of a masquerade is the anonymity. You can be anyone you want for one night.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, sharp, assessing. Not shy. Not coy. Testing.
“Is that so?” she says, voice steady. “And what if I like being myself?”
I tilt my head, my silver mask catching the chandelier’s glow.
She lifts the glass to her lips and takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. A calculated pause. A refusal to play by the rules most women would trip over themselves to obey.
And just like that, I know.
She’s the one.
Not because my father demands it, not because she’ll give me an heir, not because she’ll kneel. But because she won’t.
I extend a hand, palm up. “Dance with me.”
