Page 107 of The Bratva Betrayal

“What do you want?” I ask with a bit of annoyance. “I don’t remember us having an appointment. A date. A freaking⁠—”

“The dress,” he grunts. “Off.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then why are you still wearing it?”

“Because I’m still getting married.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I haven’t heard differently.”

“You are now.”

“You’re not the one who made this arrangement. My father⁠—”

“I spoke to your father. Misha is gone. You’re not getting married. Now… take off. The fucking. Dress.”

The relief that moves through me is so immediate and thorough that I have to work to keep it off my face.

He takes my hand without asking and steps back off the pedestal, moving toward the row of dressing rooms along the back wall and pushing the nearest door open, guiding me inside.

The space is small and softly lit with mirrors on three sides.

I turn to face him with my arms crossed. “I can take it off myself.”

“I know.” He reaches for the zipper at my back anyway, his hands settling at my shoulders.

“Artem—“

“I know.” He’s quieter this time, and I reach back and close my fingers around his hand. If I don’t stop him now, I won’t stop him at all.

“I said I can do it myself.”

He looks down at me with pretty hazel eyes and that expression that hasn’t cooled one degree since he walked through the door of this shop.

“Then do it,” he says very quietly. “I’ll watch.”

When I don’t do what he asks, he begins to unzip me, and I smack his hand away.

“Turn around,” he orders gently, his fingers finding the top of the zipper again.

“Artem.” I reach back and push his hand away again, turning to face him in the small space. “Where is Misha?”

Something shifts in his expression, and then it’s gone. “Not here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I smack his hand away and, this time, he allows it. “Where?”

“Gone.”

Gone could mean so many different things in this world.

“He’s your brother,” I say slowly. “I want to know that he’s⁠—“