Page 63 of The Bratva Betrayal

I reach out, letting my fingers brush against her ankle first, a ghost of a touch that makes her shiver. Her skin is warm beneath my hand.

I slide my hand higher, following the curve of her calf, and she doesn't move away.

She should kick me, run, or do any of the hundred things smart women do when a dangerous man puts his hands on them.

But Cady isn’t as smart as she thinks when it comes to me.

My fingers find the hem of her dress, a pretty little floral thing, and I slip beneath it. Her thigh trembles under my palm, and I hear the sharp intake of her breath.

I take my time, mapping her body with the same patience I use when I'm extracting information from someone who doesn't want to give it. Slow, steady, and with pressure, letting them feel the inevitability of it.

"You can't…" This time, there's a little more force behind it, but not enough.

"Can't what?" My voice is low and rough.

My other hand joins the first, both sliding higher now, pushing the fabric of her dress up as I go. I can feel her heat, the way her body is responding even as her mind tries to tell her this is wrong.

"I'm with Misha." There’s her last defense.

I don't pause in my exploration of her skin. Misha is a complication, sure, but he's also a means to an end. If breaking up their relationship is what it takes to shatter Cady's composure, I'll do it without hesitation.

If I can break her while having fun with it, so much the better.

My fingers trace patterns on her inner thighs, and I feel her legs part involuntarily. She's fighting herself now more than she's fighting me, and that's where I want her.

Confused, conflicted, and caught between what she knows she should do and what her body is begging her to let happen.

"Artem, please…” The word comes out broken, desperate, and I glance up at her face.

Her eyes are squeezed shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

The sassiness and sharp wit she wields like a weapon is gone. She's crumbling, and I haven't even really touched her yet.

I should feel triumphant. This is what I wanted. To see her defenses stripped away, to prove that she's not as untouchable as she pretends to be. But something darker and more complicated threads through my satisfaction.

I'm attracted to her.

I have been since the first time I saw her, with her fire and determination wrapped up in a package that doesn't belong anywhere near the Volkova bratva.

She's the enemy. She's using my brother to get close to my boss, to find weaknesses she can exploit. She's a threat that needs to be neutralized, and I should be focused on that and nothing else.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Misha, asking what time he should come over tonight, or Benedikt, demanding to know why I haven't reported in. They both want answers, want to know what I'm doing with all this time I'm spending on one Irish girl.

She's a complication, a distraction, and a threat wrapped up in blue eyes and sharp words and a body that responds to me even when she wishes it wouldn't.

I could tell Misha the truth.

I could show him the evidence I've collected, the proof that his girlfriend is using him. It would break them up instantly and remove her from his life, and send her running back to her family.

Or I could keep playing this game.

I could keep pushing her, testing her, seeing how many times I can make her almost break before she fights back again.

She might be the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen, but at the end of the day, she’s dangerous.

But instead of thinking of that, I'm on my knees in her office, my hands sliding higher up her thighs, and chasing the heat of her like a man possessed.

My fingers brush against lace, and I feel her body go rigid.