Page 38 of Bratva Bidder
I freeze.
For a second, I tell myself I misheard him.
But Konstantin is standing right in front of me, eyes locked on mine, jaw tight, his whole body wound like a coiled spring. The question hangs in the cold air between us.
How did you do that?
He saw it.
Of course he did.
I should’ve moved slower. Should’ve hesitated. Should’ve let him believe it was instinct or blind luck. But in that moment, when I saw the flicker of danger behind the glass, there was no time to fake fear.
I did what I was taught.
“What are you talking about?” I say, my voice quiet but firm. I don’t look away, even though every cell in my body wants to.
He takes a slow step toward me, the weight of his stare heavier than anything else around us. “You knew before anyone else did. You reacted like you’d done it before.”
I fold my arms across my chest. Not in defiance. In defense.
“I got lucky,” I say flatly. “That’s it.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifts. He knows I’m lying. And I know he knows it.
But he doesn’t push. Not yet.
“You don’t flinch the way most people flinch,” he says after a beat. “You don’t wait for someone else to lead. You move like someone who’s trained to survive. Or trained to kill.”
My breath catches slightly, and that’s all it takes. His gaze narrows a fraction, watching me the way a predator watches something that’s not supposed to bite back.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, softer now. I hate that it comes out sounding so small.
Konstantin’s jaw flexes. “No. I don’t. But maybe it’s time I start.”
He turns and walks a few steps toward the car waiting for us, but not without casting a look over his shoulder. A look that says this conversation isn’t over.
Not even close.
And as I follow him into the shadows of the night, sliding into the back seat of the armored SUV, one thing becomes painfully clear:
I’ve spent years hiding from who I used to be.
But Konstantin is the one man I can’t hide from forever.
The ride back to his estate is quiet. Too quiet.
The inside of the SUV is dimly lit, the low hum of the engine the only sound, broken occasionally by Lev’s voice murmuring into a radio up front.
I sit back against the leather seat, my hands curled tightly in my lap. I keep my eyes fixed on the window, watching the city slide past in a blur of lights and movement, but I’m not really seeing any of it.
Because I can feel him watching me.
Konstantin hasn’t said a word since we got in the car, but he hasn’t stopped looking at me either. His gaze flicks toward me every few seconds—thoughtful, unreadable, like he’s trying to work something out in his head.
Like he’s putting pieces together.
I keep my eyes trained on the dark glass, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending I can’t feel the weight of his attention like a hand pressed to the side of my throat.
