Page 23 of Bratva Bidder
He lifts a brow, unimpressed. “You agreed to one year of full discretion. I decide the terms.”
“That’s not how marriage works,” I say. “You don’t just buy a woman and throw a ring on her finger.”
“In my world,” he says evenly, setting the cup down with a soft clink, “you do.”
I shake my head, pushing back from the table slightly. The room feels too small now, the walls inching closer by the second. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to stand at an altar and pretend this is real.”
Konstantin watches me calmly, his expression giving away nothing. “It doesn’t have to be real,” he says. “It just has to be done.”
I grip the edge of the table, trying to ground myself.
“Why? Why marriage? Why not just…keep me here? Treat me like everyone else does in this disgusting little world you all live in?”
Something flickers in his eyes then—something that almost looks like annoyance.
Or maybe it’s something worse.
“Because you’re not just anyone,” he says quietly. “Because you matter more than you realize. And because I don’t plan to share you.”
The finality in his voice slams into me harder than anything else he’s said tonight.
I look at him across the long table, this man I barely know but somehow can’t seem to forget, the man who bought me and now says he plans to bind me to him permanently like it’s just another piece of business.
And for the first time, deep down where I don’t want to admit it, a sliver of real fear cuts through the anger. Because Konstantin Buryakov doesn’t sound like he’s asking.
He sounds like he’s already decided.
6
KONSTANTIN
She’sbeautiful even when she’s furious. Maybe even more so.
She’s still sitting stiffly at the table across from me, her hands clenched in her lap, her posture tight, her eyes burning holes straight through me. She didn’t even bother changing clothes before coming down here, wearing that wrinkled white blouse and old jeans, her hair twisted back in a messy knot like she couldn’t be bothered to play the part.
It’s a deliberate insult. A tiny act of rebellion she knew I’d notice.
Good.
I prefer it this way. I’d rather deal with a woman who fights than one who rolls over and smiles for the camera.
“I’m not going to make things easy for you,” she says after a long, tense moment, her voice low and shaking slightly, but still full of fire.
I set my coffee cup down and lean back in my chair, giving her a slow, assessing look. “I do like a challenge,” I say, meaning it.
She presses her lips together, the flush that creeps up her neck telling me exactly how much she wants to throw something at me.
“Why are you doing this?” she demands, voice harder now. “What’s the end goal? You have a humiliation kink or something?”
I raise a brow, unbothered by her attempt to provoke me. “I’m making you my wife. That’s the highest honor I can give you.”
Her nostrils flare slightly, and I know she’s about to bolt, about to end this conversation before she says something she’ll regret. She pushes back from the table, ready to leave, but I move first.
I stand and reach her before she can get a full step away. My hand closes around her waist, firm, fingers digging into the curve of her hip. She stiffens instantly under my touch, like a live wire ready to snap.
“I haven’t dismissed you yet,” I say calmly, my mouth close to her ear.
She twists slightly, trying to pull free, but I don’t let her.
