Page 40 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva
“Arina,” I say more firmly. “What did he mean?”
They still don’t answer.
Instead, they rise from the chaise and walk toward the bookshelf, running their fingers across the spines like they’re searching for something.
“Arina.”
Before Arina can respond, the door opens with a low creak. Kaz steps into the room like a storm dressed in tailored calm. His eyes land on me first—searching, unreadable—then flick briefly to Arina.
Arina stiffens. “I should go.”
Without waiting for permission, they slip past Kaz and out the door, shutting it softly behind them.
The silence stretches between us like a thread pulled too tight. Kaz’s voice is low, controlled. “I’m here to bring you downstairs.”
I blink. “Downstairs?”
He nods. “The estate has a private lounge. We’re having dinner there tonight.”
I cross my arms. “We?”
“Yes, Violet. We. I want to eat with you.”
There’s no invitation in his tone. It’s a decision. A command wrapped in charm and steel. I want to argue and refuse, but at the last minute, I change my mind. I nod quietly. “Fine.”
He doesn’t say anything more—just steps back and lets me pass him, but I pause at the edge of the bedroom.
“I need a minute. To change,” I murmur, motioning toward the closet.
Kaz nods once, and I disappear behind the door. Inside, I take a breath and stare at the rack of clothes I never asked for. Satin, silk, lace—dresses that hug and tease and whisper of wealth. I brush my fingers across a red dress, the fabric cool and soft, the kind that slides over your skin like water. I pick this one.
I change quickly, slipping into the dress and smoothing it down my thighs. I don’t look at my reflection, but I see it in Kaz’s eyes when I leave the closet. The heat.
It flashes through his gaze like a flare—hot, primal, unhidden—and for a second, it silences the world.
He doesn’t speak. Just straightens, slow and deliberate.
The air between us grows tighter with every second, and my pulse kicks up when he finally steps aside and says, “This way.”
I follow him down the winding staircase. It’s the first time I’ve walked beside him like this, not as a prisoner or a threat—but something else. I’m too cowardly to even put a name to it.
We walk through the hushed corridor until we reach what must be the estate’s private lounge. It’s beautiful. Of course it is. Warm lighting, soft jazz humming from hidden speakers, a table set for two, like we’re about to have a date.
Kaz pulls out a chair for me. I hesitate for half a second, then sit. He takes the seat across from me and pours a glass of red wine without asking.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
I don’t respond. I lay the napkin across my lap and stare at the plate in front of me, hands clenched in my lap so tightly my nails bite into my skin.
He tries again. “You like Merlot, right?”
I finally look up at him. “You’ve been spying on me. Of course, you know what I like.”
He sighs, low and tired, like I’m the one making things difficult. “I’m trying to make this easier.”
“For who?” I ask, voice flat. “You or me?”
He doesn’t answer.
