Page 2 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
Her brows arch behind the lace, but she sets her glass aside and places her hand in mine. Warm. Firm. No tremor of hesitation.
On the dance floor, we slip into the current of bodies, strings sweeping around us. She moves well, both fluid and graceful, but she isn’t trying to dazzle me. No coy giggles, no fluttering lashes. Just a steady gaze that cuts through the mask as if she can see the man beneath it.
I bend close, lips brushing her ear. “Most women here want to be chosen. You look like you’d rather burn the whole place down.”
Her breath hitches, almost imperceptible. Then she whispers back, “Maybe I’m just good at hiding what I want.”
A thrill curls through me, low and dangerous.
She thinks she’s hiding. She thinks this mask protects her.
But she doesn’t realize she’s already mine.
Tonight, she thinks she’s watching me. Watching this world…
She’s not here to be chosen. She’s here for something else.
The violins sweep, and I draw her closer, chest to chest. Her mask tilts up toward me, and I catch the flash of her mouth, lips painted the palest pink, parted just enough for her breath to ghost across my throat.
“What do you want?” I ask. Not as an idle question. As a challenge.
Her eyes spark, and she tips her head, feigning innocence. Maybe the same thing you want? A night of anonymity. A chance to be anyone, with anyone.”
I smile, slow, sharp. “No. I want the truth. Always.”
She huffs out a laugh, not quite genuine. “Truth at a masquerade? That’s a contradiction.”
“Then why do you watch instead of play?” I press. My palm slides lower on her back, testing how far she’ll let me go. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t gasp. Her only betrayal is in the way her pupils darken, swallowing the pale grey of her irises.
“Maybe,” she says, “I like stories more than dances.”
There it is. A crack. A slip.
Stories.
I file it away, even as I spin her into a turn, her skirt whispering across polished marble. She’s sharp-tongued, yes, but not careless. Whatever she’s doing here, she’s guarding it like a secret treasure.
“Stories are dangerous things,” I murmur when I pull her back against me. “They cut deeper than knives. They linger longer than bullets. Tell the wrong story and it can cost a man everything.”
Her throat works as she swallows, but she meets my gaze dead-on. “Tell the right story, and it can make him immortal.”
Bold. Reckless. My cock stirs at the defiance in her voice.
Around us, the masquerade spins on, champagne glasses colliding, velvet laughter, men in their masks whispering filthy promises into desperate ears. All of it feels staged, empty, background noise. The only real thing in this entire ballroom is the woman in my arms, baring her teeth through a smile.
I lean close, my lips brushing the curve of her ear. “Careful, little dove. Immortality has a price. And the Bratva always collects.”
She stiffens, just for a moment, before smoothing herself back into composure. That single flicker tells me more than any words could.
She knows.
She knows exactly where she is.
And she walked into the lion’s den anyway.
I can’t decide if she’s suicidal, or if she’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met.
Either way, I want her.
