Page 64 of The Bratva Betrayal

She's wearing something delicate underneath that dress, something that suggests she's not quite as immune to me as she pretends.

I trace the edge of it, feeling the way her hips shift forward despite herself, and I know I'm close to winning this battle.

"Look at me." After a moment, she does. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. A flush is spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.

She's beautiful like this, undone and vulnerable, and I want to see how much further I can push her before she shatters.

I hook my fingers under the lace, ready to pull it aside, ready to taste her and make her forget every reason she has to resist me.

My thumb brushes against her just enough to feel the heat and the wetness that tells me her body has made its choice, even if her mind hasn't.

And that's when she moves.

It happens faster than I expected from someone who seemed so lost in the moment.

Her hand comes up and cracks across my face with enough force to snap my head to the side. The sound of it is sharp and shocking in the quiet office.

Pain blooms across my cheek, bright and immediate, and for a second, I'm too surprised to react.

She doesn't give me that second. Her foot comes up next, catching me square in the balls with a precision that suggests this isn't the first time she's had to fight her way out of a situation.

The pain is blinding, white-hot, and I fold forward with a grunt, my hands instinctively moving to protect myself.

“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” she spits, and there it is.

The Irish fire I knew was lurking under the careful control.

Her accent thickens when she's angry.

"You think you can just… you think I'm some whore you can play with? If you ever touch me again, I’ll have your balls sitting in a jar on my desk."

She moves before I can recover, her heels clicking rapidly against the floor as she makes for the door.

I hear her footsteps echoing down the hallway, and then she's gone.

I’m more turned on than I ever was before.

Fuck.

I stay on the floor for a moment, breathing through the pain, and despite the throbbing in my groin and the sting on my face, I'm smirking.

I hit a nerve.

Even when her body is betraying her and telling her to surrender, she fights back.

I slowly push myself to my feet, adjusting my suit and running a hand through my hair. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, but I ignore it.

Instead, I think of how I’m going to get her to melt.

And how I’m going to get Misha to back the fuck off.

She'll be back.

She's in too deep now, too committed to her mission to walk away. And when she comes back, when she tries to pretend this didn't happen and that she's still in control, I'll be waiting.

One way or another, I'm going to have her. Whether that means destroying her relationship with Misha or breaking her down piece by piece until she admits what we both already know, I don't care.

I want to know what her father is planning, and if we need to go to war.