Page 25 of Bratva Menace

My phone flashed with another text message.

My Luky Bear: You talk as if we’ve met before. I’m pretty sure I would remember meeting a batshit crazy chick who’s been stalking me.

My gaze cut to him just as he put his phone back down again.

My Luky Bear: If you even are a chick. My sister thinks you might be a fifty-year-old, overweight, bald man who still lives in his mother’s basement.

Really?

Me: What do you think?

His shirt came off, and my stomach clenched. Carved, pure muscle. Big, broad shoulders. Rough, tanned skin littered with various scars. Some looked like knife wounds, others like gunshots.

While it hurt my heart to know he’d endured such pain, I couldn’t deny that the scars added a certain appeal.

He snapped the button of his pants open with one hand as he texted me with the other.

My Luky Bear: I think I’m bored.

My mouth dropped open in shock. Say. Fucking. What?

My Luky Bear: This was mildly entertaining at the start, but now, I’m bored. My attention is a hard thing to keep, and unfortunately for you, you’ve lost it

I was so surprised at his words I didn’t even notice he’d moved closer to me until he threw his phone onto the bed above me and walked away, effectively ending any further conversation.

Oh, baby, you have no idea what you’ve just done.

He didn’t know it, but he’d just issued me a challenge. And I fucking loved challenges. The harder, the better.

Music blasted in the air. Lukyan threw what looked like a remote control of some kind onto the couch before he strolled casually to his en suite and walked inside. He pushed the door closed behind him, but not hard enough to shut it completely. It remained slightly ajar, and from my position, I was able to see him through the mirror.

He was taking a shower.

Perfect.

He wanted me to keep his attention?

Fuck. That.

I was going to fucking take it and never give it back.

I slunk out from under his bed, quiet as a mouse, keeping my gaze locked on him through the mirror as I moved. A few ideas came to mind, but really, only one stuck out.

Once I was on my feet, I picked up his phone from the bed, and the screen lit up. A picture of him and his family greeted me. It was one I’d seen hundreds of times before because I’d cloned his phone the first time I broke into his house, but it still made me smile nonetheless.

Aleksandr, Nikolai, and Papa D stood stoically in the back, arms folded across their chests and scowls on their faces. Lukyan and Illayana were in the front, arms thrown around each other, tongues sticking out and eyes crossed.

It was an adorable family photo, and it showed each of their personalities perfectly.

The music blasting in the air offered me some comfort as I unlocked his phone—yes, I knew his passcode, and we’re not really surprised, are we? If I made any noise, it would help to conceal it.

Eyes firmly locked on Lukyan through the small crack in the bathroom door, I clasped the zipper at the top of my jumpsuit and pulled it down. My breasts spilled out. They were fake, and I wasn’t the least bit ashamed about it. I was one of those souls to be born with barely an A cup, and while I usually lived by the philosophy, who cares what other people think, be happy with your body, I was, in fact, not.

My breasts had been a huge insecurity of mine. Always were, going all the way back to high school and well into my teen years. When all the other girls in my grade would brag about their bra size, I would awkwardly try to change the subject without making it obvious.

The minute I was old enough, I went under the knife and never looked back. My surgeon was a miracle worker—so good that they didn’t even remotely look or feel fake.

I was now a solid C cup. Happy and proud. Not too big. Not too small. Perky, plump, and the perfect size to fill a man’s hands.