Pyotr stands over him, chest heaving, knuckles bloody. When he speaks, his voice carries through the silent room.
"DON'T. LOOK. AT. MY. WIFE."
The words echo. A claim. A warning. A promise.
No one moves. No one speaks. Even Dimitri just watches, expression neutral, making no move to interfere.
This is Bratva justice. This is what happens when someone disrespects another man's wife.
Pyotr turns and walks back to me like nothing happened. Like he didn't just beat a man bloody in front of dozens of witnesses. His knuckles are split, blood dripping onto the floor.
He stops in front of me, ice-blue eyes burning with something feral. "We're leaving."
I can only nod.
His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit. The crowd parts for us. I can feel everyone's eyes, but no one is looking at me the way Yuri was. No one dares.
Behind us, I hear someone helping Yuri up, hear his groans of pain.
Pyotr doesn't look back.
In the car, silence stretches. He's gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping. Blood from his split knuckles smears on the leather.
He's still wound tight. Still vibrating with violence barely contained.
I don't know what to say. Don't know how to process what I just saw.
He beat a man for looking at me. Not touching. Not threatening. Just looking.
I'm horrified by the violence.
I'm also incredibly aroused.
Something dark and primitive in me responded to what happened. To the possessiveness. To the immediate, brutal defense. He did that for me. Because someone looked at me wrong. Because I'm his and he won't allow anyone else to even think about having me.
Halfway home, he suddenly swerves onto a dark side road and stops the car.
"Backseat." His voice is rough, barely controlled. "Now."
I scramble into the back. He follows, hands already pulling at my clothes, yanking my dress up.
"You're mine," he growls, positioning himself between my thighs. "No one else. MINE."
He takes me in the backseat of the car like an animal. Rough. Desperate. Claiming. His bloody knuckles leave marks on my skin and I don't care. I meet him thrust for thrust, just as desperate, just as feral.
"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours!" I cry out. "Yours. Only yours."
We come together, violent and overwhelming. After, we're both shaking, both gasping for air.
He pulls me into his lap, still inside me, his arms locked around me like he'll never let go.
"Anyone who looks at you dies," he says against my hair. "Anyone who touches you dies. You're mine, Vera. Mine until the day I die."
"I know," I whisper.
And I do. I know exactly what I am now.
