Page 56 of Bratva Bidder
His arms come around me fast, pulling me against his chest with a force that makes my breath catch. I gasp, not in fear—never fear—but in shock. In heat. My palms flatten against his chest, but I don’t push.
His mouth crashes into mine—punishing, claiming—and my defenses shatter.
He spins me in his grip and walks me backward toward the bed, his hands roaming over the torn fabric of my dress, catching on the seams, until I hear the rip—loud and final.
Fabric peels from my skin. I shiver.
He lays me down on the bed with a growl in his throat and drops to his knees between mine, dragging his mouth down my neck, my chest, until my back arches off the sheets. His fingers find me—hot, slick, pulsing—and I cry out, my hips jerking against him.
“Konstantin—”
But then he stops. His hands slide to my hips, and I feel him hook his fingers into my underwear.
“I needed to know,” he says, voice rough, “if you smell of another man.”
I stiffen, breath locking in my throat.
He leans over me again, slow, heavy, pressing me into the mattress with the full weight of his body. Our noses almost touch. His eyes bore into mine.
His voice drops to a whisper. “But you don’t,” he says. “You smell like me,zayka.”
The endearment coils through me like fire.
Little bunny.
A name meant to soothe. To own. To remind me exactly who I belong to. And right now—God help me—I belong to him.
I shove him back with both hands, breath ragged, heart slamming against my ribs.
He doesn’t resist. Just stills, watching me with those burning eyes as I scramble upright and tug at what’s left of my dress.
My hands fumble at the torn fabric, trying to make myself decent, trying to cover the skin he just had his mouth on. But the damage is done—seams shredded, shoulder slipping down, the hem torn too high to salvage.
“There’s nothing left to adjust,” he says quietly. His voice is low, unreadable.
I straighten slowly, refusing to meet his eyes. “If you think I’m spoiled goods…” I pause, swallowing the bile in my throat. “Then send me away.”
The silence after that is suffocating.
The words hang between us like a challenge. My chest rises and falls too fast. I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict. Waiting to see how disposable I really am.
He watches me in silence.
His eyes aren’t cold. They’re burning.
And that’s worse.
When he speaks, his voice is low. Measured. But I can hear the strain behind it. The crack beneath the surface.
“If I wanted someone perfect,” he says, “I wouldn’t have bought you.”
I blink. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” he says, stepping closer again, slowly this time. “It’s supposed to make you understand.”
His gaze sweeps over me—my flushed cheeks, the torn fabric slipping down my arm, the defiance in my eyes I don’t bother hiding.
“I knew you weren’t untouched,” he says. “Not really. I knew from the first moment you opened your mouth and didn’t cower.” He stops in front of me, lifts a hand, touches the edge of my jaw with the barest graze of his knuckles. “And I didn’t care then. I don’t care now.”
