Page 118 of Bratva Bidder
He blinks up at me, stunned and smiling like a drunk child who doesn’t understand why the stove burned him.
Alexei tries to step in again. “Konstantin—please.”
Lev’s at my side now. He doesn’t need to ask.
He just pries my hand off Roman’s collar and pulls me back, walking me toward the exit like a bomb ticking seconds before detonation.
I let him.
Because if I don’t, I’ll finish Roman right here.
25
NADYA
I waketo movement at the foot of my bed.
At first, I think I’m dreaming. The light is soft, barely morning, and my body’s still heavy from sleep.
Konstantin.
Sitting at the foot of my bed, hands resting on his knees, eyes already on me like he’s been waiting.
I smile without thinking.
He’s the only part of my day that doesn’t feel like a countdown. The only thing that cuts through the fog of hospital corridors and test results and blood charts.
I stretch, slow and lazy, the sheet slipping down to my waist. I don’t bother covering myself. Instead, I shift just enough to let my legs fall open, my smile turning wicked.
“Is this an inspection or an invitation?”
His eyes darken—but not with heat.
“I’m not here for that,” he says, voice low. “Not yet.”
Before I can react, he grabs my ankles, yanks me forward in one smooth motion, and pulls me to the edge of the bed. My breath catches—not in fear, but because the look in his eyes isn’t playful. It’s focused. Intent.
“Tell me,” he says. “What kind of training did you do with your uncle?”
That pulls me up short. I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t let go of my leg. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t play dumb, Nadya,” he says. “I’ve seen the way you move. I know you stayed abroad with your uncle. It doesn’t take much to put two and two together.”
I shake my head. “How much exactly did you find out about me?”
“Enough,” he says. “But there are gaps that I need you to fill up.”
I take a breath. “My mother’s older brother. Former military. Not the polished kind. The kind who never really came home, even after discharge. He raised me for a few years in Odessa when things with my father got…messy.”
Konstantin watches me, silent. His thumb rubs a slow circle against my ankle.
“By thirteen he had me learning throws, joint locks, break-falls. Krav Maga forms, mostly.” I pause, trying to read whether this is enough. It isn’t.
“He drilled situational awareness into my skull—blind-corner checks, mirror angles, entries and exits. By sixteen I was picking locks and breaking them, field-stripping pistols blindfolded inunder a minute. Hand-to-hand every morning, blade work every night.”
Konstantin’s eyes narrow, absorbing each word. “Weapons?”
