Page 65 of The Bratva Betrayal

If I get her on my cock in the meantime, I consider that a bonus.

It’s time to update Benedikt, reassure Misha, and keep all the pieces of my carefully constructed life moving in the right direction.

But my mind is already planning the next move in this game Cady and I are playing.

She got away this time, landed a solid hit, and escaped with her dignity more or less intact.

Next time, she won't be so lucky.

14

Cady

Velvet drapes the color of aged wine frame floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city in the restaurant. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen constellations overhead, their light warm and golden, designed to make everyone look like they belong in a place this expensive. The tables are spaced far enough apart that conversations remain private, intimate islands in a sea of wealth and discretion. And waitstaff who move like ghosts, present when needed, invisible when not.

It's just the kind of place Misha would choose.

He's already seated when I arrive. Misha Makarov doesn't wait for anyone, but he makes it look like he's been counting the seconds until I walk through the door. He rises as I approach. The charcoal suit is bespoke, cut perfectly to his lean frame, his shirt open at the collar. His dark hair is styled with the kind of careless precision that takes effort to achieve.

"Cady." He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. "You look stunning as always, babe.”

"You look like you're trying to get laid," I reply, and he laughs, completely unbothered.

"Always." He pulls out my chair, waits until I'm seated, then returns to his own. "But tonight, I'm also trying to feed you. The chef here is exceptional. You'll love it."

A waiter appears, pouring water into crystal glasses and presenting us with leather-bound menus.

Misha waves his menu away without looking at it. "We'll start with the oysters and the burrata. For mains, I'll have the duck, and the lady will have..." He glances at me, one eyebrow raised in question.

"The halibut." I've learned that letting Misha order for me makes him think he has more control than he does.

"Perfect. And bring us a bottle of the Chablis to start. The Premier Cru."

The waiter nods and disappears, and Misha leans back in his chair, studying me with those dark eyes that would miss very little if he ever bothered to look past the surface.

But that's the thing about Misha—he doesn't dig. He's content with what's presented to him, especially when what's presented is beautiful and smiling and sitting across from him in a restaurant that costs a small fortune to dine at.

"You seem different tonight." He reaches for the vodka that's waiting at his place setting.

"Different how?" I keep my voice light, curious, like I'm genuinely interested in his assessment rather than calculating how much he's noticed and whether it's a problem.

"I don't know. More..." He waves his hand vaguely, searching for the word. "Intense. Like you're thinking very hard about something."

I am.

I'm thinking about hands on my thighs and a voice in my ear, and the way my body betrayed me in my office.

I'm thinking about how I ran like a coward and how my heart was still racing hours later. How I can still feel the ghost of a touch on my skin.

But I'm not about to tell Misha any of that.

I’m also not going to tell him that I’ve considered letting Rian or Killian make him disappear.

"Just work." I shrug dismissively. "Long day. Too many meetings with people who think they're more important than they are."

"Ah." He nods and takes a sip of his vodka. "Then tonight, we don't talk about work. Tonight, we talk about pleasure and all the things that make life worth living."

“You think pleasure is the only thing worth living for, Misha.”