Page 50 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

I squeezed my thighs together as shame and anticipation crashed through me. But I wasn't backing down.

I was about to type something even more outrageous when the office door suddenly swung open.

I looked up. A woman stood in the doorway—ageless. She was beautiful. Tall and slender, skin almost translucently pale. Smooth flaxen hair fell past her shoulders. Her cornflower-blue eyes looked liquid enough to drown in.

"I'm here to see Varlam." Her voice was as delicate as she was, but that familiar use of his first name stabbed at me.

"Mr. Petrov isn't in the office today." I set down my phone and slipped back into assistant mode. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Then you can leave your name and contact information. I'll pass it along."

"I don't need an appointment." She said it calmly. "Just tell him Miss Vasilieva is here."

The name didn't ring any bells. I searched through all the lists Varlam had given me. Nothing matched.

I wanted to say no, but her matter-of-fact expression stopped me. Occasionally, special guests came to see Varlam without appointments—people he'd always make time for. But those people were all burly, dangerous-looking men. Not this.

"One moment." I picked up the desk phone and dialed Varlam's number.

He answered after two rings.

"There's a woman here to see you. No appointment."

"Name."

"Miss Vasilieva."

Sudden silence on the other end. Just two seconds, but I heard my own heartbeat thicken in my eardrums.

"Who?" His voice changed.

Like a nerve buried too long had been touched, tightening even his breathing.

I looked at the woman. She stood quietly by my desk, lips curved in a faint smile.

"Miss Vasilieva," I repeated.

"Tell her to wait." A chair scraped the floor on his end, followed by rapid footsteps. "I'm on my way."

"Varlam, you—"

The line went dead. I held the receiver against my ear, frozen for a few seconds.

"He'll be here soon." The woman looked at me, voice certain. "He always has been."

I didn't answer. The way she said it—like she was sharing a secret between her and Varlam—sent an ominous twist through my chest.

I pulled out my phone and texted him. No response.

"Who is she?"

I sent another. "What's going on?"

Still nothing.

All those messages that had made me blush sat above these two ignored questions, and suddenly they looked pathetic.