Page 31 of Bratva Bidder
I glance at Konstantin, expecting him to react. To bristle. To do something.
But he doesn’t. He stands there, silent, unmoving, his face carved into a mask of stone.
Only I’m close enough to see the small tells. The way his jaw clenches tight enough to strain the muscles in his neck. The way his fists curl and uncurl at his sides. The way he keeps his breathing slow and measured, as if controlling it is the only thing holding him upright.
And despite everything—despite the fact that I don’t owe him kindness, that he bought me like property—I feel a sharp, uninvited stab of pity for him.
Because no one deserves this.
Not even him.
Not to be ripped apart so publicly by the man who should’ve been proud of him.
Beside me, Alexei shifts slightly, sensing the tension too.
There’s something almost protective in the way he angles his body, subtly stepping half a pace in front of me, like he’s bracing to cut off whatever further humiliation Dmitry might throw.
Dmitry finally glances away, scanning the rooftop, clearly growing bored now that he’s made his point. “I should greet my wife,” he says idly. “And Roman—wherever he’s managed to pass out.” He claps Alexei lightly on the shoulder. “Come, boy.”
Alexei hesitates for a half second. Just long enough for me to catch it. Then he gives a slight bow to me, a spark of real sympathy flashing in his gray eyes. “Congratulations again,” he says quietly.
I nod, my throat too tight to answer.
As they move away, Alexei glances back once, offering me a quick, almost apologetic smile before disappearing into the crowd after his father.
The second they’re gone, the tightness around us snaps. Like a stretched wire finally breaking. I feel it before I even look at him. Konstantin, standing beside me, shoulders rigid, fists jammed so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turn white.
I turn away from him, needing a breath, needing to put space between me and the tightly coiled rage vibrating off his body.
The bartender behind the small rooftop bar is setting up another round of drinks, moving with quick, practiced efficiency. I watch him for a moment, focusing on the clink of glass, the smooth pour of amber liquid, anything to quiet the rush of emotions clawing at my chest.
That’s when it happens.
A prickle. A strange, cold shiver at the back of my neck.
My spine stiffens instinctively, the way it used to when I walked home alone at night with too many footsteps behind me. A sensation I’ve learned never to ignore.
I glance toward the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the edge of the rooftop.
Something moves.
Fast.
Too fast to be a reflection.
Too fast to be a trick of the light.
My breath catches in my throat, and every muscle in my body tightens at once. The hair on my arms rises, and I straighten slowly, my pulse hammering hard against my ribs. I scan the reflection in the window again, heart racing, every muscle locked tight.
Nothing.
Just the city lights glittering far below, the slick blackness of the glass, and the soft murmur of oblivious conversation behind me.
But I know what I saw.
Or maybe it’s not what I saw. Maybe it’s what I felt.
That icy prickle at the base of my skull, the way my body tensed without permission, the way my gut twisted in warning.
