Page 48 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

Like that name could help me hold onto something I'd lost too long ago.

Deep in my mind, another face flashed in that same pronunciation. Flaxen blonde hair, blue eyes, pale lips.

I'd once put all my attention on a woman. I'd gotten the ring ready, even taken someone else's advice for once, arranged a proposal she wouldn't find boring. I thought she'd smile, put her hand in mine.

She broke up with me before I could pull out the ring. She said my need for control suffocated her, that every day with me felt like being locked in a cage. She wanted freedom, and all I did was make everyone obey.

That ring never left its box, and I never mentioned it to anyone again. After Brinny left, I sealed up the space she'd occupied. But now, Briony lay beneath me. She was mine, and she'd never leave me. I felt that emptiness inside slowly filling.

Her name was so similar to Brinny's, but they were nothing alike. Briony's brown eyes were always lively, full of energy—not that depressed blue. Her body was soft and curvy, not weakened by illness.

And because of that, I could fuck her hard and give her all my seed.

She pushed back against me, meeting every thrust, and I lost whatever shred of control I had left. My hips snapped forward, hard and fast, chasing that edge.

"Where?" I gritted out. "Where do you want it?"

"Inside," she gasped. "Inside, please!"

That did it. I buried myself deep and came harder than I ever had in my life. Wave after wave, spilling everything into her, filling her completely. She clenched around me, milking every last drop, and I groaned against her back.

When I finally pulled out, my cum spilled out after—so much it ran down her thighs. The sight made something primal roar in satisfaction.

Mine. Marked. Claimed.

I collapsed beside her, chest heaving. She crawled into my arms, pressed her ear against my heartbeat.

The tension that'd been eating at me for days finally dissolved. The bloodshed from cleaning out traitors, the rage I couldn't drown in my study, the hollow ache that no amount of alcohol could touch—all of it smoothed away by her warm breath.

Briony stayed quiet. She didn't ask why I'd shown up in the middle of the night, didn't demand to know where I'd been these past few days.

She just reached out, traced her fingers along my hand to the base of my pinky. Her fingertip stopped on that circular scar. Countless people had seen it. Some feared it, some pretended not to notice, others treated it like some legend worth flattering. No one had ever touched it this gently.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked.

"Sometimes."

On rainy days, the pain would sink into the bone. But I was used to it.

I saw her eyes go damp. She waited, and when I didn't explain further, she brought my hand to her lips, kissed the scar softly. A jolt shot from my pinky straight to my heart. My chest tightened hard.

I didn't know how to handle moments like this, so I just pulled her closer.

"Are you and Rory safe here?" Thinking of her standing behind the door with that baseball bat, the brief peace in my chest immediately replaced by dissatisfaction.

That door was too thin, the lock too weak. She and Rory lived here, and anyone with a little force could break in.

I should move them somewhere safer, have someone protect them around the clock.

But if I actually did that, what would Briony think? Would she feel safe, or would she accuse me of interfering with her freedom?

"At least there's no danger right now. Rory and I both love it here."

"Don't just open the door anymore." That's all I said in the end. "Check who it is first, then call me."

Briony hummed softly in response. Then she pressed a light kiss to my jaw, like we were longtime lovers, like we lived in a world without gunfire, without betrayal.

It made my spine tighten, because I was already imagining another kind of life. With Briony.