Page 8 of Bratva Bidder
And if I’m honest with myself?—
I want her for the same reason.
Not for love. Not for pity. But because owning a weapon like her means no one else gets to. Because there’s power in what she represents. Control in what she can become.
There are a few familiar faces in the crowd. Faces I’d rather see through a rifle scope.
There’s Gennady, a bloated bastard who sold off his mistress’s daughter last year for a gambling debt. Next to him, Kirov—ex-military, kicked out for killing a superior and kept around by the Bratva because he’s good at making people disappear. I gave him that broken nose.
As if sensing my gaze on him, he turns to glare at me. Motherfucker.
The auctioneer steps into the spotlight, voice smooth as lacquered sin.
“And now, gentlemen…the final lot of the evening. Lot nineteen.”
The curtain parts, and she steps onto the stage.
She doesn’t walk—she arrives.
For a split second, I don’t think anything at all. My mind goes still—quiet in a way it never is. Because every inch of the woman stepping into the spotlight seems carved for war and worship both.
Tall. Proud. Regal.
Long dark hair is pulled back to expose the line of her throat. A black silk dress clings to her like shadows—slit high enough to be daring, cut low enough to silence the room. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t flinch. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes burn beneath the lights.
She looks like a queen standing in a den of jackals.
And fuck me?—
Something inside me moves.
Not lust. Not power.
Recognition, or something like it. A twitch in my chest. A pull I don’t understand.
I lean forward slightly, trying to place her. I’ve seen her file, read her details. But the photos didn’t capture this. They didn’t capture the fury simmering beneath the composure. The way she holds herself like she’s not being sold—she’s being chosen, and the one who wins her better know what the fuck he’s getting into.
Lev breathes low beside me. “That’s her.”
“I know,” I murmur.
He side-eyes me. “You okay?”
I nod, but I’m not really listening.
She doesn’t look afraid.
She looks furious. Like this whole auction is an insult she’s allowing—for now.
“Are you seriously doing it?” Lev says. “Are you really going to bid on her?”
I don’t answer. Because I’m already watching the bids rise.
“Four million.”
“Four point five.”
“Five.”
