Page 100 of The Bratva Betrayal

“No. He’s yours. Handle it before someone else does. He won’t last the week.”

His forehead drops to mine.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

I do.

“What did I tell you about picking the wrong brother?”

I scoff, turning my head away when he grips my face between his thumb and index finger. “This game. This… spying. It’s over.”

“Says who?”

“You know who says who. I’ll speak to your father tomorrow.”

I attempt to pull back from him, panic surging through my veins. “I’m not marrying⁠—“

“Me?” His grip tightens. “No, you won’t marry me. But you’ll fuck me when I want you to and vice versa. You belong to me. And fuck the dowry. Your pussy is payment enough.”

I don’t know if he’s kidding, teasing, or insane.

He picks his pace back up and makes sure every thrust inside me is as deep as he can get.

My ass hits the wall with each propel of his hips, and just when I think it’s going to be a steady buildup for my orgasm, Artem’s fingers snake between my legs and begins to twirl my clit.

My breathing hitches and my body is thrown into overdrive as Artem’s face finds its way to my neck.

His lips, then his tongue, caress my skin. Every inch of his cock fills me in all the right places, and I’m seconds from coming.

Seconds from screaming.

Artem lets out a low growl, and I combust against his body, stiffening as he delivers several final, punishing thrusts.

He explodes inside me, holding me pinned against the wall, his chest heaving against mine and his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my palm.

For a long moment, the only sound is the heavy, synchronized gasps of two people who have just burned everything down to feel something real.

Slowly, he slides out of me, but he doesn’t pull away.

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice returning to a dark, possessive rumble. “Welcome to my world, Lisichka. You’re not free until I say you are.”

23

Artem

The city is going grey by the time I get back.

It’s just before sunrise, and everything looks washed out and still. The streets are empty. I’ve been up for twenty hours, and I feel none of it.

I take the elevator up and know my brother is still awake because Misha has never gone to bed before the sun came up if there was vodka available.

There is always vodka available in my apartment, and he helps himself to it the way he helps himself to everything I have.

I find him on the couch in his boxers with a glass in one hand and his phone in the other. Gold chain catching one of the lamps, gold watch on his wrist, gold ring on his right hand.

He looks up when I walk in, enough vodka in him to smooth out any rough edges the night has left behind.

“You’re back early,” he says cheerfully and gets to his feet. “Good night?”