Page 43 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

"This is how you apologize to a woman?" I looked at his hand. "By grabbing her?"

He let go quickly.

"I just want to talk." His eyes traced my face, then slid down to my chest and waist. "I wanted to tell you—you look beautiful tonight."

Varlam's compliments made me feel good. Makar's just made me sick.

In the months we dated, he never complimented me once. Every time I wore something fitted, he'd stare at my waist and tell me to eat less. Now he was looking at me with that sticky gaze.

"Thanks." I gave him a token response and moved to leave. "I need to get back to the gala."

"Wait." He stepped in front of me again, blocking my path. "You still like me, don't you? Why else would you dress so sexy and parade around me? Why else start a fight with Chloe to get my attention?"

I almost laughed at the absurdity. This man had twisted everything—my dress, my pushback, even Chloe's abuse—into some declaration of love for him. How had I never noticed how narcissistic he was?

"I don't like you anymore. And I regret ever liking you." I spoke each word clearly. "What I wear has nothing to do with you. I fought back because she humiliated me first, not to impress you."

"Don't play games, sweetheart." He laughed, eyes dropping to my chest again. "You succeeded. You got me going, made me want you more than before, made me regret breaking up with you."

What was he even saying? Had he lost his mind?

"You're disgusting."

"You won't say that after I kiss you."

He yanked me toward him. When his breath—reeking of alcohol—hit my face, my stomach almost turned.

He grabbed my chin, his face getting closer. I turned my head with all my strength. His lips grazed my cheekbone. But he clearly wasn't giving up. I beat at his chest. He trapped my hands.

"Makar, you fucking asshole!" I brought my knee up.

He grunted in pain but didn't let go. I could only watch helplessly as his lips came toward mine.

God, I'd rather get bitten by a pig.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Through my struggling, I heard a voice filled with rage.

Varlam strode up, expression murderous. Those steel-gray eyes held a savagery I'd never seen before. His fist flew faster than I could track, landing square on Makar's face.

I heard the crack of bone. Makar stumbled back clutching his nose, screaming, blood dripping on the floor.

"Get out." The words scraped cold from Varlam's throat.

Makar seemed about to say something, but seeing Varlam's violence, he swallowed it. He looked at Varlam, then at me—a long, hard look—before finally storming off. His figure disappeared around the corner.

My body went weak. If Varlam hadn't shown up, Makar might've done worse.

"You're okay now." Varlam pulled me close.

The cool scent of him was instantly calming.

On the way back, Varlam's hand stayed pressed against the small of my back. When curious or prying eyes fell on me, I straightened my spine.

Then a woman blocked our path. She wore a floor-length magenta gown, hair swept up high, neck and wrists dripping with ostentatious diamonds.

"Varlam, how could you hit your brother?" The woman seemed completely unafraid of him. "Makar's your father's blood too."

"Camilla, I respect you because you're my father's widow. That doesn't mean you get to let Makar run wild." His voice dropped. "Before you blame me, you should ask what he did."