Page 44 of Bratva Bidder
And then he walks in.
Konstantin. His shirt is half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. He looks tired. Not rough or angry—just worn.
I keep my eyes on my plate.
He says nothing as he crosses the kitchen, his boots quiet on the stone. For a moment, I think he’s going to pour himself a cup of coffee, or maybe grab something from the fridge and go.
But then?—
He pulls out the chair next to me. And sits down.
Right next to me.
I stop chewing, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth.
The silence is thick enough to choke on.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, too close, body warm and solid, like nothing happened between us. Like he didn’t pull me apart with his mouth last night. Like he didn’t lick a tear off my cheek and walk away like none of it mattered.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice into something neutral. “If this is about last night?—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “Don’t,” he says, quiet but firm.
I push my chair back, ready to stand, to put space between us, but his hand reaches out and closes over mine before I can.
I go still. His hand is still over mine, warm and steady, but not forcing anything. Just…holding me there.
I don’t look at him, not right away. I’m too busy trying to steady the tight, confused knot in my chest.
The memory of last night still burns under my skin—the way he touched me, kissed me,lookedat me—followed by the cold void he left when he walked away.
I keep my eyes on my coffee cup, fingers curling slightly beneath his palm, tension flickering in my wrists, my throat, the air between us.
If he says something cruel now?—
If he pretends none of it meant anything?—
I swear I’ll?—
But then he says the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.
“I need your help.”
10
KONSTANTIN
She looksat me like I’ve grown another head.
I don’t blame her.
Even as the words leave my mouth, I realize how absurd they sound—asking the woman I bought, the woman I backed into a gilded prison with a contract and a last name she didn’t ask for, to help me do something no one else has the balls or loyalty to attempt.
She freezes in place, her wrist still in my hand. Her pulse thrums beneath my thumb—fast.
She doesn’t ask me what kind of help. Not yet. She just looks at me, waiting, suspicious, guarded as hell—and so goddamn beautiful I have to remind myself not to stare too long at her mouth.
That mouth. I remember how it tasted last night.
