Page 40 of Prey of the Bratva

I studied her carefully. “But that’s what makes you different. You understand them.”

“Yes,” she said simply.

“And yet you still went to the warehouse, and you still decided to find the network, and you are still trying to get to the bottom of it. You understand the consequences and what you might be up against, and you are still choosing to stand firm.”

Her gaze met mine then, steady and unflinching. “Yes, I am.”

There was no pride in her voice. No dramatics. It was a plain, simple fact. That unsettled me more than anything else. Silence stretched again, but this time it did not feel strained. Itfelt suspended instead, as if something between us had shifted without either of us acknowledging it directly.

She pushed herself up from the chair, then, slow and controlled. I could see she was getting better, but her movements were not fully normal yet. I noticed the slight tightening of her jaw immediately and the way her weight shifted unevenly despite her attempt to hide it. The fracture in her foot had not fully healed, and it would not for some time.

She took one step away from the chair and then another. By the third, the strain was visible. I moved before she could pretend otherwise or stop me, my hand closed around her arm. My touch was neither rough nor forceful, but firm enough to stop her from walking on her.

“That’s enough,” I said.

“I’m fine. I can walk. I have been walking like this for days now.”

“I can see that, Misha. Which is probably why it is not getting better. You’re not walking in this misery until your fracture heals fully.”

Her eyes flashed with irritation as she tried to pull away, but the motion was weaker than she intended it to be. Pain had a way of stripping away illusions, no matter how disciplined someone was.

“I said I’m fine,” she repeated, sharper this time.

“And I said you’re not.”

For a second, we simply stood there, tension tightening between us. It was familiar territory since neither of us was a stranger to this push and pull and the refusal to yield. But something about it was different now. A little softer. I did not argue further, but I simply bent and lifted her. The movementwas swift and controlled, leaving no room for resistance. Her breath caught sharply as her hands instinctively came up, gripping the front of my shirt to steady herself.

“Kliment—”

“Stop,” I said quietly. “Let me take care of you.”

She went still in my arms, though I could feel the tension in her body bordering on the instinct to resist, which was still present beneath the surface. But she did not fight me. Not this time. That, in itself, was new. I adjusted my hold slightly, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She was lighter than I expected but not fragile. I could sense her controlled strength. Her warmth seeped through the thin barrier of fabric between us, grounding in a way I did not anticipate.

“You are injured yourself, Kliment,” she whispered, her blue eyes staring up at me.

“I am fine.”

Her hand remained against my chest, and I felt her touch. I felt every slight shift of her fingers and every subtle tightening of her grip. Our breathing fell into an unexpected rhythm as I carried her down the hallway towards the bedroom. Neither of us spoke, but we did not need to. When I reached the bed, I lowered her carefully, far more carefully than I had handled anything in a long time. She did not immediately let go of my shirt. Her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before finally releasing. A part of me wanted to keep her in my arms all night.

I straightened slowly. But neither of us stepped back.

The distance between us was minimal now. I was close enough to see every detail of her expression. Faint tension still lingered at the corners of her eyes, and the controlled rise andfall of her breathing only made things worse for me. I could not let go of the way her gaze held mine without hesitation and fear.

Something tightened in my chest. It was not anger or control, but something rather unfamiliar. I reached out without thinking as my fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, tucking it back gently. The movement felt foreign. Unpracticed. I was not a man accustomed to softness. Neither in action nor in intent. But to my surprise, Misha did not pull away.

Her breath hitched instead, and even though it was barely noticeable, I felt it.

Our eyes locked, and something immediately shifted.

The tension that had always existed between us. The tension that had always been sharp, volatile, and edged with hostility fractured into something else entirely. It was still intense. Still dangerous. But no longer driven by opposition. Her gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.

Mine followed. And that was all it took.

The distance between us closed without conscious thought. When my mouth met hers, it was not forceful or claiming but rather slow and testing as if nothing else mattered. It was a question more than a statement, and for a split second, she froze. And then she responded.

“Kliment,” she whispered my name against my lips, making me feel things I had forgotten how to feel.

Her hand came back to my chest, fingers curling into the fabric as she leaned into the kiss. It deepened gradually, not rushed, not desperate, but charged in a way that sent something sharp and electric through me. This was not anger and control, but something far more dangerous. Her lips were warm and steady despite everything she had been through. There was nohesitation or uncertainty in her response. It felt like a choice. As if she were choosing me and choosing us.