Page 22 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
No. Absolutely not.
It hits wrong like cold water in the face. Like distance, I refuse to accept. She’s trying to reset us, tuck the last three days into a box she can shove under the bed and ignore. She wants to file me back under “employer.” She wants to put herself back under “temporary.”
And underneath all that? Shame.
The idea burns through me, sharp and instantaneous.
“Stop,” I say, and the command drops into the room like a grenade. Everything stops with it. She freezes, spine straight, her back still half-turned to me.
“Come here.”
She doesn’t move. Her gaze stays pinned to the floor. So I move instead. Two steps, and I have her arm in my hand, pulling her toward me. She collides with my chest, a breathless sound escaping her.
“Anton…” Her warning comes out in a whisper that trembles more than she wants it to.
“Too late.”
My fingers slide into her curls—the same hold I used when she pulled every last ounce of control out of me—and I kiss her.Hard. Deep. Absolute. No space for doubt or shame or retreat. Her hands push at my chest for half a heartbeat, but then her breath catches and she softens, folding into me like she doesn’t know how not to.
I kiss her like she’s oxygen. I kiss her like I dare anyone in this room to speak. I kiss her until her weight sags against me and the sound she makes melts down my spine.
I only stop when her knees threaten to give. When the air shifts from silent shock to something else entirely. I step back just enough to see her face—her lips swollen, her eyes dazed, her hair coming undone. The clerk looks like she’s seen an execution. The associate looks like he forgot how to blink. Daniil is smirking like Christmas came twice.
“Good morning, Ms. Brooks,” I say, and turn my back on every last one of them.
One minute. Two.
The door slams open behind me and slams shut again. Good.
She storms in like a small, furious storm, chest heaving, eyes blazing. “How. Dare. You,” she hisses, shaking with indignation.
“I dare.” I lean back in my chair, letting the words land exactly where they need to land. “Close the blinds.”
“I will not—”
“Close the blinds, Talia. Now.”
She glares as if she could incinerate me without lifting a finger. Then she spins, all angry lines and stiff shoulders, and slaps the button. The privacy shutters descend, sealing off the outer office.
“You had no right,” she says, whipping back toward me.
“I have every right.”
“You kissed me in front of everyone. You practically branded me.”
“Da. I did.”
“They’ll be whispering. Staring. I might as well walk around with a giant scarlet letter.”
“A scarlet I,” I say. “For Ismailov. It suits you.”
“This isn’t funny, Anton. You can’t just claim me in front of your entire staff like I… like I’m something you own.”
I’m out of my chair before she finishes the sentence. Her back hits the wall, and she gasps, but she doesn’t flinch away. Doesn’t break eye contact. The sheer defiance in her expression nearly drags a groan out of me.
“I can,” I say quietly, the words slipping between us like a lock clicking shut. “I did. You are mine, malen'kaya. And I am not a man who hides his possessions.”
Her jaw tightens. “And what does that make me? The boss’s new whore?”
