Page 17 of Bratva Bidder
I glance at Konstantin out of the corner of my eye, wondering again how a man like him—someone who grew up without his father’s name—clawed his way to a position powerful enough to sit beside the city’s most feared men. Dmitry Buryakov isn’t known for giving.
Lev opens the back door without a word. I get in, settling into the smooth black leather interior, which somehow manages to feel both expensive and sterile. It’s too clean, too silent, and clearly custom-built for privacy and intimidation.
The car pulls away smoothly, merging into the quiet late-night streets of Los Angeles. I’m acutely aware of the man sitting next to me, the leather seat only making the space feel smaller. Konstantin doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
I keep my gaze forward, telling myself I won’t be the first to break, yet every time the car changes lanes and his shoulder grazes mine I feel the punch of memory—a hotel room in Barcelona, salt air coming in through an open window, my back against cool sheets while he presses kisses down my ribs. He took his time, pushed my blouse aside to cup my tits in his palms, thumbs sliding over nipples that went tight almost painfully fast, and I remember the weight of his body above me as clearly as I remember my own name.
My pulse starts to climb now, here in the back seat, because even if he doesn’t remember that night, my body does. When he finally looks over, the blue of his eyes feels closer to heat than ice, and I know he feels this too, whether he admits it or not. His gaze drops once—to the thin cotton blouse I changed into—and lingers on the outline of my breasts beneath the fabric, a slow assessment rather than a crude stare.
Without warning he reaches over and smooths a lock of hair behind my ear, fingertips dragging along the side of my neck. It’s not rough, yet the possessiveness is obvious, and my skin prickles from shoulder to wrist. I should pull away; instead I stay still, too aware of how he could lean in and kiss me if he wanted.
The driver merges onto a quieter street, headlights washing across us in bands of white and shadow. Konstantin’s knees turn toward me. I mirror the angle without thinking, and the small space suddenly feels smaller. The memory unspools further—his hand sliding beneath my skirt that night, middle finger slipping through slick heat, my moan hushed by his mouth while his other hand squeezed my breast until I arched helplessly. In the back of the car I press my thighs together because the memory alone makes me ache, and I hate that he might see that need in my expression.
When I open my eyes again, Konstantin is staring directly at me, a faint crease between his brows. For a terrible second, I think he can see right through me—that he knows exactly what I was just remembering.
“What?” I ask defensively, fighting the flush heating my cheeks.
He watches me a moment longer, then shrugs lightly. “Nothing. You just looked like you were miles away.”
I swallow, forcing myself to relax. “Just thinking about how I ended up here.”
He tilts his head, thoughtful. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, Nadya.”
He turns away again, facing forward, and I let out a slow breath, grateful that the darkness hides the way my hands tremble in my lap.
4
KONSTANTIN
The car slowsas we approach my estate, the gates sliding open soundlessly to admit us. I watch Nadya from the corner of my eye, careful not to let her realize how closely I’m observing her. She sits quietly, posture stiff, eyes wide as she takes in the view. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. It’s clear from the way her lips part slightly and the tightening of her fingers against her thighs that she’s never seen anything like this before.
I’ve already studied her background carefully. She didn’t grow up in a home with money. Her father, Pyotr, was notorious for squandering every opportunity and every dime that passed through his hands. From what I gathered, her childhood was modest at best, chaotic at worst. And now here she is, arriving at my estate—a sprawling property set a comfortable distance outside Los Angeles, acres of carefully maintained grounds and architecture designed to intimidate more than impress.
As we roll down the long driveway toward the main house, I glance toward Nadya once more. She’s trying to maintain her composure, but curiosity—and perhaps shock—is unmistakably written across her face. When the main building comes intoview, with its broad stone steps, marble columns, and imposing facade, her breathing quickens slightly. It’s subtle, but I notice it immediately.
I’m used to this reaction, and frankly, I enjoy it. This place is a symbol, not just of my wealth, but of everything I’ve built—every drop of blood, every broken bone, every silent betrayal that brought me from Dmitry’s bastard son to a man who means something.
A man nobody ever saw coming.
The car finally comes to a halt in front of the main entrance, and Lev steps out to open Nadya’s door. She pauses, seemingly uncertain, before finally sliding out of the car and taking in the view properly. I follow slowly, buttoning my jacket and adjusting my cuffs as I watch her.
“Welcome to your new home,” I say, keeping my voice even, betraying nothing of my curiosity.
Her eyes flick toward me, wary, but she quickly looks away, focusing instead on the estate’s sweeping, illuminated grounds and the security guards patrolling at regular intervals along the perimeter.
I’ve never taken security lightly. Power attracts enemies, and I have plenty. Men who underestimated me when I was younger, men who whispered behind my back, dismissing me as Dmitry Buryakov’s unwanted accident. Those same men lost their arrogance quickly when I began taking their territory piece by piece, carving my name into their losses and claiming what they thought was rightfully theirs.
“You can relax,” I say finally, as I gesture toward the open front door. “You’re safe here.”
She doesn’t reply, probably because she knows that’s bullshit. But I don’t care. She may not understand it, but she’s the last piece of the puzzle I need to own this city, and take my father down.
They underestimated me, and I turned their arrogance against them. I built something they couldn’t ignore, and now, whether they like it or not, the city is forced to see me for exactly who and what I am.
I step closer to her, my voice quiet but firm. “Follow me,” I tell her. “We have much to discuss.”
We walk through the grand entrance, the heavy oak doors closing silently behind us. Nadya’s steps are careful, as though she expects the floor beneath her to collapse or shift suddenly. I slow my pace slightly, allowing her to keep up comfortably as we cross the foyer, my shoes clicking against polished marble tiles.
She pauses, looking up at the chandelier hanging above us—crystal and intricate, reflecting tiny prisms of light against the walls. Her expression is tightly controlled, yet I catch the slight widening of her eyes, evidence that she isn’t accustomed to surroundings like this.
