Page 15 of BRATVA'S Avenging Bride
"I don't want anyone. I want you."
"You don't even know me."
"Then let me."
The words hang between us. She sets down her fork. Wraps her hands around her coffee cup like she needs something to hold onto.
"This is a mistake," she whispers.
"No, it isn’t."
"You're going to regret it."
"No, Katherine." I move closer. Slowly. Giving her time to adjust to my proximity. "I’m not. Because when you realize I mean every word I'm saying, when you understand that I will raze this entire city to keep you safe…you're going to have to decide if you can live with that kind of devotion."
Her eyes are so dark. So deep. I could drown in them.
"I don't need saving," she says.
"Maybe you just don’t know what safety actually is because you’ve spent so long barely surviving." I hold out my hand. Palm up. Offering. "Stay. Learn my world. Let me show you what real power looks like. And if you decide I'm just another Boris, another cage…" I nod toward the knife block on the counter. "There are plenty of sharp objects within reach."
She looks at my hand. At the bandage where she cut me. At the scars on my knuckles from years of violence.
Then, slowly, she reaches out.
Her fingers brush mine. Warm and steady.
"One week," she says. "I'll give you one week to prove you're not like them."
"Done."
"And if you fail?"
I smile. Dark and full of promise.
"Then you can watch me burn, zhar-ptitsa. Fair is fair."
Katherine
One week. I agreed to one week, and it's been three days since I made that deal with the devil over breakfast eggs and black coffee. Since the doctor came and asked more questions than I ever knew possible and then gave me the “all clear.” No broken bones, a blood test for infections and a strong recommendation that I begin therapy.
I'm standing at the floor-to-ceiling window now, watching the city sprawl beneath me like a body under a sheet. I can see the ruins of the club from here, black and crumbling. Somewhere, Mira and Lena are trying to rebuild their lives.
And I'm here. Thirty floors up in a penthouse owned by the man who owned the club I burned down, wearing clothes that fit too well, and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because it always drops. Men like Matvey don't protect women like me out of the goodness of their hearts. They want something. Payment. Control. Pieces of me I'm not willing to give.
The door opens behind me. I don't turn. I know his footsteps now. Deliberate, unhurried, the walk of a man who's never had to run from anything in his life.
"You're thinking too loud," Matvey says.
"I'm thinking the appropriate amount for someone being held captive." I turn to face him. He's in a black suit today, perfectlytailored, a thin silver chain visible at his collar. His hair is still damp from a shower. He looks like money and murder wrapped in expensive fabric.
He crosses to the bar, pours himself something clear. Doesn't offer me one. Knows I'll refuse. "The investigation is closed, but Boris's associates are asking questions. The families want to know who started the fire."
"The families?"
"Bratva." He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. "My world isn't just me and Emil and a few foot soldiers, Katherine. It's a network. Territories, contracts, blood oaths. When something happens in my territory, people notice. People ask questions."
