Page 45 of Bratva Bidder
How she sounded when she came against my tongue, her back arched, her fingers tangled in my hair like she didn’t want to let go.
I hadn’t meant to touch her like that. I hadn’t meant toneedit.
But something about her—something in the way she defies me even when she’s trembling—makes me reckless.
“I need your help,” I say again, voice low just so I can break the tension pulsing between us. What is it about her that makes me lose control? Why do I feel this way?
She stares at me like I’ve just confessed to murder.
“What?” she breathes. “Help with what?”
I let go of her wrist slowly, deliberately. My hand falls to my side, but I don’t move back. She’s standing, I’m standing—we’re eye to eye, the space between us crackling.
“To bring my father down,” I say.
She blinks. Once. Twice. “You want me to help you…with that?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She’s too smart to play dumb, but I can see her searching for the angle, the why, the part where this turns into a trap.
I give her none of it.
“My father wants me gone,” I say. “He has for a long time.”
Her expression shifts, slowly, lips parting as something cold and sharp sets into her voice. “You think he put the hit on you?”
I hold her gaze. “I don’t think,” I say. “I know.”
We stand like that, in silence, the truth heavy between us.
For a second, I think she’s going to laugh, or turn away, or ask me if I’ve lost my mind.
But she doesn’t. She just keeps looking at me, the pieces starting to move behind her eyes—faster than most people ever put them together.
And I know she understands something now.
“You’re serious,” she says finally.
I nod once. “Deadly.”
She exhales through her nose, glancing off to the side, jaw set. “And you thought asking your bride—who you don’t know, who you bought—was a good place to start?”
“I thought asking the one person here who doesn’t owe my father a damn thing was smarter than trusting anyone who does.”
She’s quiet.
I can feel her heartbeat in the air between us, fast and uneven. She crosses her arms, but it’s not defensive—it’s grounding. She’s thinking, not retreating.
“I don’t even know what you’re planning,” she says.
“You don’t need to. Not yet.”
Her eyes snap back to mine. “That’s not how trust works.”
I step closer. “Trust doesn’t work at all. It just happens. Or it doesn’t.”
She studies me—really studies me. I let her. Let her search for weakness, deception, cracks in the armor. There’s nothing left to hide. Not about this.
