Page 30 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

He made my leaving sound like deliberate provocation, but I'd just wanted to leave that out-of-control night at the hotel before he woke.

"So this is revenge?"

"My patience was tested."

"Sounds like the same thing." I looked up at him with that challenged expression, couldn't help teasing, "Men always mistake one impulsive night for some kind of ownership."

The last warmth in Varlam's eyes drained away.

"Are you comparing me to other men?" His voice stayed calm, but his jaw tightened.

"I'm just confirming if this is your standard pattern." I sensed danger and worked to keep my tone steady. "Keeping women around, controlling their work and whereabouts. You do this with other women too?"

Brief silence fell. Varlam stared at me, something dark and cold in his eyes I'd never seen before.

"Control." He repeated the word quietly.

Then he straightened, withdrawing the arm braced beside me. The pressure vanished, but I felt no relief. He returned to his desk, settling back into his chair, tapping his cigar box. Each tap hit my taut nerves.

"You seem very interested in how I treat other women."

"Just asking." I slid off the desk.

I already regretted my stubbornness.

"Then do your own job first." He pushed the cigar box to the desk's edge, steel-gray eyes landing on me again. "Open it."

His tone went cold, like the earlier spark never existed.

I resignedly walked over and opened the box. Inside lay several Cohiba cigars, with a silver cutter and lighter beside them.

"Cut it. Light it."

I looked at the cigar, then at him.

"This is assistant work?"

"This is the first thing I'm giving you to do." His voice wasn't loud, but somehow reminded me of people downstairs holding their breath in his presence.

It wasn't difficult. Dad occasionally smoked Cuban cigars—I'd seen him handle them.

I took one from the box, carefully cut the cap, then slowly toasted the edges with the lighter until the faint tobacco aroma spread. The flame finally burned evenly. I handed him the cigar carefully.

Varlam took it, brought it to his lips for a draw. I was about to step back when he suddenly exhaled the smoke in my face. The harsh tobacco scent invaded my nose, the acrid sting shooting straight to my eyes. I coughed unprepared, stumbling back two steps.

"Mr. Petrov." I wiped the water from my eyes with the back of my hand, glaring at him. "If you just want to make things difficult, there are more mature ways than blowing smoke in my face."

I'd misjudged him. He was just a nasty fake gentleman. Smoke rose slowly, making his features look even deeper. His gaze traveled slowly up from my heaving chest.

"Like?" He made the word sound low.

I knew that look too well. This wasn't what I meant to say. I hated anyone toying with me like this.

"I mean you could make the work harder. I'm sure I can handle it."

"Anything I give you counts as work."

As he spoke, he flicked ash. A small gray-white flake fell on the carpet.