Page 39 of Bratva Bidder
He exhales slowly—not loud, but enough that I hear it. When I finally risk a glance at him, he’s staring ahead, his jaw tight, a faint frown etched between his brows.
He’s thinking. I can see it—the stillness in his posture, the way he taps one finger against his thigh. He’s pulling threads. Following instincts.
And I wonder?—
Does he know?
Does he remember the night in Barcelona?
The room with the balcony and the warm breeze off the water?
The cheap champagne we drank like it was something sacred?
Does he remember me?
I look away again quickly, pulse ticking faster. There’s no sign of recognition on his face. No flicker of memory. Just that same intense, silent scrutiny he’s always given people he doesn’t quite trust.
So maybe…
Maybe he really doesn’t know.
But that doesn’t stop the worry from sinking deeper into my bones. Because if he ever does remember—if he realizes who I am, what we were, what came after?—
Everything will change. And not in a way I can control.
The car pulls into the estate just past midnight.
The wrought-iron gates glide open without a sound, the long driveway gleaming wet under the low glow of security lights. Everything here is clean, precise, untouchable—like nothing that happened tonight could ever reach it.
A fortress.
The SUV rolls to a stop near the front entrance, the engine ticking quietly as the driver shuts it off.
Lev is the first to get out. He opens the door on Konstantin’s side, then walks around, his posture finally relaxing for the first time since the rooftop.
“Hell of a wedding,” he mutters under his breath. Then, with a crooked smirk, he glances toward us and adds, “You do remember the tradition, yeah? Carrying your new bride over the threshold?”
I scoff softly, more out of reflex than anything else.
He’s joking. Of course he’s joking.
I turn to look at Konstantin, expecting the same dry amusement I hear in Lev’s voice. Maybe a scowl. Maybe a dismissive wave of the hand. But I don’t get either.
He turns to me, and before I can fully process the shift in his expression, he moves.
Suddenly, I’m airborne.
His hands are under me—one at my knees, one at my back—and the next thing I know, I’m in his arms, being lifted from the SUV like I weigh nothing.
“Wh—what the hell are you doing?” I manage, breath catching in my throat.
His lips brush dangerously close to my ear, his voice low and rich with something I can’t name. “Welcome home, bride,” he murmurs.
My pulse skips violently. The words are quiet, but they wrap around me like a brand. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No mockery. Just a dark, quiet promise I don’t know how to unpack.
Inside, the estate is quiet. The kind of stillness that settles over large, expensive houses after midnight—polished, eerie, too perfect. The only sound is the soft tread of Konstantin’s boots onthe marble as he carries me inside like this is just another chore, something expected, something he has a right to do.
But I can feel it in the way his fingers flex around me—this is anything but routine.
