Page 7 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
“You put your faith in the wrong god, storyteller.” I raise my hand and, this time, trail my fingertips down the line of her throat to the hollow where her pulse thrums, then lower to the small, practical pendant hidden at her sternum. Not diamonds. A thin disc of steel, etched with a tiny serial. Medical, not decorative. Prepared for bad nights. “You don’t survive this world alone. No one does.”
“I’m not in your world,” she says.
“You are now.”
Before she can fire back, there’s a discreet double-tap at the door. I don’t look; I just extend my hand and the slip is placedagainst my palm through the narrow service hatch. Silent, efficient. Anton’s printout, names attached to tickets, cloak tags, a scribble on the reverse: no photo trail / phone off / arrived alone.
Clean. Too clean for anyone born to this ballroom.
“You weren’t invited here tonight. So how did you get in, little dove?”
Her jaw clenches, the first flicker of annoyance I’ve seen from her tonight.
“A friend of a friend,” she says, tilting her chin defiantly.
“Your friend of a friend chooses good friends,” I say, folding the paper without letting her see it.
Her brows flick in the smallest acknowledgment. She won’t give me the name; she’s not careless. Fine. We don’t need names yet.
Downstairs, the orchestra strikes a new set and the crowd erupts in polite applause. Tomorrow inches closer. My father’s leash tugs. My cousins sharpen their knives when they should be finding their own wives.
I open the door and offer her my arm again. She stares at it like it’s a trap, which it is, and slides her hand into the crook of my elbow anyway.
We step back into the light.
Let them see. Let them wonder who she is. Let them think I’ve made my dutiful selection like a good son.
Only she and I will know the truth: I didn’t pick safe. I didn’t pick soft.
I picked sharp. And I plan to bleed for it.
Natasha
The chandeliers flare bright gold after the shadow of that little salon, and for a heartbeat I have to blink against the brightness. The orchestra swells, the crowd shifts, and we’re moving again. Him with the easy prowl of a man who owns the ground under his feet, me on his arm like a prize he’s just claimed.
On the surface I match him, step for step. Head high. Mask steady. Not a single tremor to betray what just passed between us. Inside, though, my mind is a whir of gears.
I should pull away. I should disappear into the crowd before this goes any further. I should forget a solid story to destroy a world and justleave. But every instinct screams that if I let go now, I’ll lose the best lead I’ve ever had.
I glance sideways at him. He’s not gloating. Not leering. Just a calm, unreadable line of a mouth under that silver mask, eyes dark and fixed ahead. And the strangest thing is how easily the crowd parts for him.
We reach the edge of the ballroom and he stops. Not at the doors, as I half hoped, but at the foot of a grand staircase I didn’t notice before, curving upward into shadows lit by a single flickering sconce. Guests glance our way, whisper, then quickly look elsewhere.
“You enjoy an audience,” I say lightly, though my voice sounds a touch too dry to my own ears.
“An audience enjoys me,” he replies, equally light.
I squeeze his arm a fraction tighter, smile at a passing couple, and lower my voice. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere quieter,” he says. “You wanted a story.”
Quieter. My pulse stutters. He’s giving me exactly what I wanted, access, proximity, and every survival instinct I’ve ever had is telling me to run. But I came here to peel the mask off this world. If I back down now, I may never get this close again.
“All right,” I say. My own voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Lead the way.”
He releases my arm but his hand slides down to my lower back, guiding me up the staircase. Warmth seeps through the thin fabric of my dress, a steady weight that saysI’m in control. Every step echoes on the marble, each one sounding like a decision I can’t undo.
At the landing we pass two men in plain black suits. Their masks are simpler, heavier. Not guests. Guards. One of them gives a small nod as we go by.
