Page 37 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

I lean in and run my nose along the soft skin at the nape of her neck. She smells like a fucking rose. All I want to do is bury my face between her silky thighs and eat her out like she’s my last meal.

My cock strains against the crotch of my pants, but I can’t succumb to that urge right now.

“Get your hands off me! I hate you!”

I laugh. “Oh, little lamb, I doubt that.”

“I hate you,” she snarls again, cheek smashed against the reflection.

“Is that so? Well, then make me believe it.”

She jerks her head back hard. It cracks against my nose. I feel the rush of pain, followed quickly by the rush of blood.

Then, to Elyssa’s surprise, I laugh. “If I were to slip my fingers between your thighs, what would I find there? Proof of your hate?”

She stiffens. “You wouldn’t.”

“You’re my wife.”

“That word doesn’t mean anything to you. I’m just another pawn in your game.”

“It’s not a fucking game,” I growl. “This is war.”

“And I’m one of the casualties?”

“That remains to be seen.”

At that, I release her. She gasps at the sudden chasm between us and slumps down to a huddled puddle at the foot of the window, shaking uncontrollably.

I allow my gaze to linger for a few seconds on her exposed cleavage before I walk over to the mahogany wardrobe on the opposite wall.

The whole time, I can feel her eyes on my back, but I ignore them and open the wardrobe doors. I rifle through the selection of dresses I’d had brought here for her.

I pick out the sleek red dress with the thin straps and open back, then lay it out on the bed in front of her.

“What are you doing?” she asks in a low, hollow croak.

“We’re having dinner tonight,” I inform her. “You’ll be wearing this.”

She stares at me in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“I’m not wearing that and I’m not having dinner with you.”

“What makes you think you have a choice?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t get it. Why go through this whole song and dance? I’m your prisoner, so why bother with wining and dining me?”

“Because I want answers from you that I still haven’t gotten.” It comes out clipped and cold, harsh enough for her to flinch at my tone, just like I intended.

It’s an excuse—not that she knows that. And while there is some truth to it, it’s not the whole reason. The whole reason is far more complicated to pick apart.

“I don’t remember anything,” she says. “I’ve already told you that.”

“If you’re so sure, then what are you afraid of?”

That stumps her. She looks down for a moment, her eyes unfocusing.

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