Page 48 of Bratva Bidder
I turn around—relief and adrenaline crashing together—and see Konstantin at my side, eyes locked on mine, reading everything I didn’t say out loud.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie too quickly.
He follows my gaze before I can stop him. The second he sees Kirov, something shifts in his posture. Subtle. Dangerous.
He straightens. His hand brushes lightly against my lower back—calming, grounding, possessive all at once.
Kirov raises his glass again. This time toward Konstantin.
Bold move.
“Do you want me to handle it?” Konstantin asks, low enough only I can hear.
I hesitate. “No,” I say. “He’s not worth it.”
Konstantin doesn’t argue. But his hand stays there, resting just above the curve of my spine, like a warning to anyone still looking.
Kirov turns his attention elsewhere, pretending not to care, but I can feel his eyes brushing my skin again when he thinks I’m not looking. I force myself to stay still. To breathe through it. To keep my back straight and my expression unreadable.
Konstantin stays at my side. He doesn’t touch me again, but he doesn’t drift either. He hovers close, one step behind or beside me, his gaze sweeping the room.
People approach. A few of them nod at me, but most pretend I’m not there. I don’t care. I’d rather be invisible than spoken about like property, like a prize. And still, I smile. I sip. I play the part.
But it’s getting harder.
Every time I catch a glimpse of Kirov in my periphery, my stomach coils tighter. His smirk. His whisper to the man beside him. His casual arrogance, as if nothing has changed, as if he could still reach out and claim me if he felt like it.
I can’t stay here. Not like this.
I reach for my glass again, only to find it empty. That’s when Konstantin leans in, voice low and close to my ear. “Come with me.”
The air outside is cooler. Quieter. The sounds of crystal, music, and polished laughter dim the second the heavy doors shut behind us.
We step out onto a stone terrace framed in warm amber lights, the city glittering below us like a secret. The night wind brushes against my skin and I finally exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the moment we walked in.
Konstantin doesn’t speak at first. He just stands beside me, hands in his pockets, staring out over the city like he’s counting lights.
“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice softer now.
I hesitate. Then I quietly admit, “I didn’t expect to see him here.”
“I did,” he says. “I just didn’t expect him to look at you like that so openly.” He takes a sip of his wine, scowling to himself.
I look away. “He didn’t touch me.”
He turns to face me then. “Doesn’t matter.”
I hate the way my throat tightens. I hate that I want to cry over something that didn’t even happen. But it did, in a way. The memory of that night, the bidding, the way Kirov stared at me like I was meat—it’s still there, bruising something tender inside me.
“I hate this world,” I whisper, barely audible.
“I know,” he says, quieter this time.
I wrap my arms around myself, more from instinct than chill. The night air kisses my shoulders, cool and calming, but the heat inside me refuses to fade.
“You don’t,” I murmur. “You’ve always had power. No one’s ever owned you.”
