Page 35 of Used By the Merciless Bratva
Her forest green eyes were as piercing as I remembered, flecked with gold like tiny, unwavering embers. She stood with her stillness mirroring mine, arms relaxed at her sides.
There were no thrown objects, no shouts of anger.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips. While she lacked the physical strength, the rigorous training, and the bloodon her hands that I possessed, her inner fire blazed fiercely, refusing to be snuffed out. It was a flame I had witnessed once before, many years ago, within a frightened little girl with untamed auburn curls.
“You should be,” I replied.
It was the right answer. I was a man who thrived in shadows and chaos, a figure forged and reforged into nothing more than a weapon. Fear was my craft, and I wielded it with proficiency.
However, as the words slipped from my lips, a part of me acknowledged the falsehood. It wasn’t solely about instilling fear in her.
I am reminding myself of the chasm I needed to maintain between us, a chasm that I know is already beginning to erode.
I approached her, taking one deliberate step after another, narrowing the gap that had served as our sole defense. Her gaze remained locked on mine, for not a moment did fear or hesitation flicker across her features. I sensed her observing me intently, her intellect racing to unravel the meaning behind every move I made. She was sharp, as the dossier had indicated, and I felt the undeniable truth of that emanating from her.
I stopped a foot away. The air between us was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with threats and everything to do with chemistry. I could smell the faint scent of gardenia from her bouquet, a sweet, deceptive fragrance that was quickly being overshadowed by the dry heat of my own desire.
“I can see what you’re trying to do,” I continued, my gaze taking over the black dress and then up to her face. “The dress. The refusal to speak. You think you can make me lose control. Anger me. Force me to give a shit by pulling off these childish acts of rebellion.”
My voice was a soft, cruel murmur as I continued.
“You don’t know me at all. I couldn’t care less about these things. So, if you wish to go on wasting your time acting defiantly for no reason, you are welcome to try.”
I watched as Katria’s face went still, a mask of something I couldn’t read. My words had landed, but they hadn’t shattered her. Instead, she simply turned and walked away from me, her movement slow and deliberate.
She didn’t stomp or huff in frustration as she went to the vanity table near the window and began to unpin her veil. Each movement was a silent, graceful insult, and I could feel the invisible threads of my control slipping.
I strode over to the mini-bar as my mind replayed the kiss at the altar. The fire from her lips, the way she had whispered her promise to ruin me.
Then, we’ll burn together.
My own words, a reflective response, now felt like a prophecy. It was a lie, of course. I was a man built to extinguish flames, not stand in them. Yet, the phantom heat of her mouth lingered on mine, a potent memory that made my hands clench into fists.
I poured two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid glinting under the soft light. I didn’t measure; I simply filled them, a gesture of excess I rarely permitted myself. I handed one to her without a word.
She took it, her fingers brushing mine for a brief, electric second. I had to restrain myself from pulling her closer then and there. Without hesitating, she tipped the glass back and drank the whiskey in a single gulp, her throat working as the liquor burned a path down to her stomach. She held my gaze over the rim of the empty glass, her eyes full of a defiant sort of recklessness. She was a woman who was not willing to burn, but seemed to welcome the pain of it.
She moved away from the table, closing the distance between us again. She came until her body was almost touching mine, her hip brushing against my thigh.
“Kiss me,” she said, the words a low dare. “You said you wanted me to act like a wife. I’m here now. Your wife. Now act like my husband.”
I felt the blood pound in my veins, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. I had known this was a possibility, that a woman like her would not simply submit to the role. But her directness, the sheer audacity of her challenge, was a shock to my system.
I raised an eyebrow, trying to project a nonchalant air, a cool indifference I was far from feeling. It was a performance, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of desire I was barely holding back.
I was losing my mind over her. It was a quiet, insidious madness. Every moment I spent in her presence was a struggle, an invisible battle to keep my hands to myself, to keep the carefully constructed walls around my heart from crumbling. I could feel her fire, a fierce, reckless energy that was a stark contrast to my own frozen control. But there was something else.
A tremor in her hand, a slight shift in her breathing. She felt it, too. This wasn’t just a challenge. It was a mutual surrender to the inevitable.
I drank the rest of my whiskey, the liquid a burn that barely registered over the fire she had ignited inside me. I put the empty glass down on the nearest surface with a hard, final thud.
My hand moved to her chin, my grip firm, and I pulled her face up to meet mine.
I covered her mouth with mine.
The kiss was a hard, brutal, raw act of possession born from weeks of simmering anticipation and the infuriating dance we had just performed. My fingers tightened on her chin,holding her steady, a silent command for her to receive. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she met with a desperate intensity that shocked me. Her lips, soft moments before, were now hot and demanding against mine, her body pressing closer, a silent plea.
It was a volatile collision, two forces meant to repel, drawn together by an undeniable gravity. The sounds of the Yezhov brothers’ laughter and hoots of encouragement from the garden below drifted faintly through the closed windows, a grim reminder that this was still, in part, a performance. A public declaration, even behind closed doors. But the fire that was raging between us was anything but staged.
