Page 158 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“Why?”

“Because I was in shock then,” she says. “I didn’t really know what was happening.”

“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?” I ask, unable to hide my smirk.

Her eyes narrow. My smile gets broader. For someone as passive and soft-spoken as she is, seeing the spark in her only makes me harder.

“Take off your bra.”

Her body stiffens. But not in anger. If I’m not mistaken, that’s arousal I’m sensing from her.

I know I’m letting her distract me yet again. I know I’m putting my preoccupation with her above everything else—including the obsession I’ve nursed for the last five years.

It’s like a car crash. I see it coming. I hear it coming.

But I can’t stop it. I cannot fucking stop it.

I feel possessed. “Maybe you need some help,” I growl, stepping forward until there’s only an inch of space between us.

I know we don’t have time for this. But fuck it—I’ll make time.

She keeps her eyes fixed on mine and her hands limp at her sides as I reach behind and unhook her bra. It snaps apart and she shudders as my fingers graze her naked back.

The way she’s looking at me feels like an invitation. Her chest rises and falls fiercely, and I can see her eyes dilate.

“Careful, little lamb,” I warn her—or maybe it’s myself I’m warning. “You’re in too deep.”

I see a flash of pride run across her eyes. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“No? Then maybe you should tell me. Or better yet, show me.”

The effect of those words is immediate. Her eyes shut down and she pulls away from me. “People say that,” she murmurs. “But they don’t mean it.”

“I’m not like everyone else,” I say. “I’ve done much worse on my best day than you’ll ever dream about on your worst.”

She shudders again. “I believe you.”

“Then why aren’t you running from me?”

She avoids my eyes and reaches for the dress. She pulls off the silver brooch pinned to the front. It’s absurdly huge, absurdly glitzy, the point big enough to stab someone with. This old lady didn’t do anything halfway, apparently.

Elyssa sets the brooch on the bathroom counter and raises the dress in her arms. “I’ll need your help putting this on,” she says. She’s still not looking at me.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Well, maybe I don’t have an answer.”

I’d love to be able to press her for one. Or at the very least, press up against her for one. But now’s not the time.

I watch as she steps into the dress on and turns her back to me. She’s hugging herself and goosebumps prickle up and down her spine. She sucks in a breath involuntarily when my fingers brush her shoulder blades as I zip her up, one tooth of the zipper at a time.

But when she spins in place, it’s my turn to shiver.

She genuinely takes my breath away. Even with her unkempt hair and the complete lack of makeup on her face, she’s fucking beautiful. Too fucking beautiful to die.

“You are lovely,” I murmur.

I mean that. I truly do. She’s exquisite and fragile, like a piece of hand-crafted porcelain. But the words are more like an apology for what I’m about to do.

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