Page 24 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
"I absolutely would. I would kill for you, Talia. Do you understand me? I will killforyou. I will killtokeep you."
"This is... this is too much, Anton," she whispers, the fight draining out of her, replaced by the fear I hate. "I'm not... I'm not ready for this."
"Too. Fucking. Late." I kiss her, hard, stealing her protest. "I told you. From the beginning. There is no going back. There is only me."
I let her go. She's trembling. "Now," I say, my voice all business again. "Come here. I need to discuss some other important matters with you."
"What matters?"
"My schedule. My...needs." I walk to my desk. She follows, hesitant. She's still miffed, I can see it. Her arms are crossed, but she's here.
I sit on the edge of my desk and pull her between my legs. "Don't fight me, Talia," I say, sliding my hands under her blouse, finding her warm, bare skin.
"I'm not," she whispers, but it's a lie.
"I lost it." My forehead kisses hers, hiding my eyes. She's my weakness, but she doesn't know it. "You looked down... looked away... and I thought... You looked ashamed."
Her head snaps back. "Ashamed?"
"Of me. Of this."
“No.” The denial is instant, vehement, almost violent in the way it leaves her. “God, Anton, no. Not ashamed. Never.”
“Then what?”
“Scared.” Her voice thins, her throat working around the word like she hates admitting it. “Terrified. I was… I was trying to hide. I was trying not to be ‘that girl.’ The temp who… you know.”
“You are my girl,” I growl, and I kiss her—not to shut her up, but to steady the fury rising in my chest at the idea she’d even consider cheapening herself like that. “That is all that matters.”
She shakes her head, breath ragged, eyes refusing to stay still on me. “You say that like it’s simple. Like you brand women with your mouth in front of an office full of people every day. Like you… like you do this all the time.”
I bark out a quiet laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Never.”
She flinches at the force of it, but I don’t back off. “Listen to me. I have never—never—been raw with anyone. I’ve never wanted to. Never felt this…” I drag a hand down her spine, feeling the shiver roll through her. “…this lack of control. This… crack in my armor.”
“Anton…” Her voice softens, but she looks skeptical, the kind of skepticism born from a life of being overlooked or underestimated. I recognize the shape of that doubt immediately.
“You think this is routine?” I lift her chin so she has nowhere to look except directly into me. “You think I waste time kissing women in elevators or hauling them into my office because I can’t breathe right unless they’re near me?” I shake my head slowly, each word tight. “You think I let anyone see me lose my temper, my restraint, my fucking mind?”
She swallows. “I just don’t understand why me.”
I feel something hot and dangerous curl low in my chest. “Because of who you are,” I say, the words scraped from a place I don’t usually let anyone touch. “Not just your face—though, malyshka, your beauty could start wars. And not just your body—though I’m half feral for it.” I lean closer, my forehead brushing hers, my breath mingling with hers. “You. All of you. The way you think. The way you don’t fold. The way you looked me in the eye that first day with your broken boot and refused to let me intimidate you.”
Her lips part, but I continue before she can twist it into something small.
“You doubt yourself,” I murmur. “I see it. You think this is some crush, some obsession with your looks, some temporary fixation.”
She doesn't deny it.
I huff a low breath, annoyed that she can't see her own worth. “Do you honestly believe any other woman would have refused what I offered you? Any woman in this building? Any woman in this city?” My voice drops into something dark and certain. “I would have given you anything you asked for. Money. A penthouse. A car. A contract. A kingdom.”
Her brow pulls together, confusion flickering through the doubt. “I didn’t want any of that.”
“That,” I say, thumb brushing her lower lip, “means a fucking lot.”
Her breath catches, her fingers curling lightly into my shirt like she needs something to hold onto.
“And then,” I continue, my voice roughening at the memory, “you refused even a meal. Not out of pride. Out of consideration for other people.” I shake my head, a humorless smile pulling at my mouth. “You were worried about what my staff would think. About how they’d be treated. You put their comfort above the perks you could have gotten from my name.”
