Page 92 of Bratva Bidder
He flicks a glance over his shoulder, smirks. “Hard to believe you raised two terrors in a shoebox like this. You sure you didn’t lose one behind the sofa?”
I arch a brow. “Keep talking, Bratva boy. You might end up behind the sofa.”
He laughs—deep, smug—and strides closer, clearly itching to test the line I just drew. “Show me.” His tone is teasing, but the challenge thrums beneath it.
I set the files aside and step around the coffee table. Before he can blink, I hook my foot behind his ankle, pivot my hips, and flip him flat onto the rug with a softwhump. Shock widens his eyes for half a heartbeat. Then his pride catches up, and he’s half grinning, half scowling up at me.
“What the?—”
I straddle him before he can recover, bracing a knee against his chest. “You were saying?”
“Where the hell did you learn that?” he growls, propping on his elbows.
I shrug.
He stares up at me, stunned, the wind knocked out of him—both literally and figuratively. I can see it in his eyes, that flicker of disbelief. And then something darker ignites behind it.
His pride may be bruised, but the desire now blazing in his gaze more than makes up for it. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters.
“Careful, Konstantin. You’re dangerously close to being impressed.”
“I am,” he admits. “But mostly I’m now wondering what else you’re hiding in this apartment. Maybe a sword under the mattress? Land mines in the laundry hamper?”
I roll my eyes. “You know, just because you’re good-looking doesn’t mean you’re funny.”
He laughs low in his throat. “No, but it buys me time.”
He surges up suddenly, grabbing my hips and flipping us in one smooth motion. My back hits the wall as his mouth claims mine—hot, bruising, wild. I gasp against him, but the sound dies in his kiss.
His body is flush with mine, one hand gripping the wall beside my head, the other tangled in my hair. It’s not just want—it’s everything we’ve buried in silence. Fear. Fury. Longing. All of it.
And under it, the quiet, devastating truth:
We don’t know how long we’ll have this.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes wild and clear and completely focused.
“I need your help, Nadya,” he says hoarsely. “I need you if I’m going to survive what’s coming.”
My breath catches.
Because for all his power, for all the fear his name inspires?—
He’s not just asking me to fight with him. He’s asking me to stand beside him. And I don’t think he’s ever asked anyone that before.
I push him away. He backs off. “Why me?”
“I don’t know who else to trust,” he says.
“You have Lev.”
He chuckles softly, looking outside before stepping toward the worn sofa and sitting down carefully, as though afraid of disturbing the fragile peace. I sit beside him, leaving space between us—space that feels filled with memories and hurt and tentative hope.
“I’ve never really had a family,” he says finally, his voice low, hesitant, as if sharing something he rarely speaks of. “My father has always held control. He likes to remind me I exist because he chose not to get rid of me. My mother—she was his mistress. He never loved her, never even pretended to. She was a possession, a secret. Something disposable.”
My throat tightens, heart aching unexpectedly for the child he must have been. “What happened to her?”
“She died when I was twelve. An overdose, though I doubt it was accidental.” His voice roughens, bitterness threaded through his words. “That’s the way he operates. He doesn’t tolerate weakness, or anything that might threaten his perfect family facade.”
