Page 35 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

“That’s not a purpose,” she hisses. “That’s a jail sentence.”

I chuckle darkly. “Is that right?”

“You didn’t ask me,” she says. “You’re no different than him.” Her eyes flash amber.

I bound forward to close the distance between us and, with one hand on her throat and the other on her hip, I pin her against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The robe is thin and I can feel the contours of her body against my own. Her nipples are definitely hard. I position myself right between her legs. My cock is a weapon ready to be unleashed.

“We’ve played this game before, little lamb,” I hiss in her ear. “You don’t want to go making comparisons you’ll end up regretting.”

Her eyes glisten as she stares up at me. The fight in her is fucking intoxicating. I’ve never been more turned on.

“What do you want with me?” she asks.

My answer is immediate: “Everything.”

She trembles against me and I feel her body go slack. Like she’s given up. But when I look into her eyes, the same vibrant intensity blazes strong.

I’m picking my battles,that light says.You’d better be careful when picking yours.

I feel my cock twitch with anticipation.

“You’ve already taken everything from me,” she whispers. “I have no one and nothing left. You’ve made me an outcast among my friends, my family. You’ve taken my son. Charity is gone…” Her voice trembles.

“You think you’re the only one who’s lost things?” I seethe. “You’ve never held your wife’s dead, mutilated body in your hands. You’ve never breathed in the scent of your son’s blanket and forced yourself to accept that he’s never, ever coming back. Don’t talk to me about loss, little lamb. You don’t know the first fucking thing about it.”

She breathes heavy, her breasts rising and falling with the motion. Her eyes gleam in the darkness.

“There’s only one thing I want from you now,” I snarl.

“And what’s that?”

“The truth.”

She plants two hands on my chest and shoves as hard as she can. It does nothing. “Get off me,” she lashes out angrily.

I laugh and shake my head. “No.”

She tries to push me again, but this time, I grab both wrists and pin them to the window on either side of her face.

She stares at me with wide eyes that betray more than just anger.

“Do you really want me to get off you?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. “You know what I really want?”

“Enlighten me.”

“My son.”

“I will decide when you see him.”

“You can’t do this. He’s my child.”

“And you’re my wife,” I growl.

“I’m not your wife; I’m your prisoner. There’s a difference.”

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