Page 11 of Lobanov Bratva Obsession
Elena sat by the window in moonlight that turned her platinum blonde hair to something brighter, more silver. She’d changed into a silk robe that clung to curves the previous night’s clothing had only suggested. The deep green fabric made her eyes look even more impossibly blue.
The idiot I sent to get her clothes would explain whythatwas part of what he got. I had asked him to go with Anna, thecook’s daughter, for a feminine set of eyes or whatever. I clearly made a mistake.
“The family is divided,” I said without preamble. “Some want you dead immediately. Others want answers first.”
She listened without an iota of fear in her expression.
“And you?” She tilted her head fractionally. “Which camp claimed your vote?”
I clenched my jaw.
When I didn’t respond, she stood and folded her arms loosely across her chest—not that it didn’t still make the swell of her breasts visible.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said.
“You’re not in a position to negotiate terms with me.”
“Oh, I am,” she answered, her tone sharp. “I built a conspiracy case, linking several organizations to one another. More importantly, linking them to the Bratva. Emphasis on built. It’s already documented and drafted.”
She went on. “So, as I was saying before, I had to explain myself…” She took a few steps towards where I stood by the door.
I had to restrain myself from laughing at the way she framed her words.
Great! Now I find her funny, too.
“I will guide the exposure carefully. I’ll ensure Bratva survives intact,” she offered before I interrupted.
“Now you’re passionate about the Bratva’s wellbeing?”
“I’m talking about the big picture,” she clarified. “The Bratva as a whole. In return… I won’t be silenced.”
Pinning her with my gaze, I stepped closer to her, not stopping until our bodies were almost touching. She didn’t step back, just like I’d half-guessed. The tension between us was electric; it was a mix of anger, desire, and a hint of danger.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I told her, my voice lower than I had intended.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” she started, looking up at me. “I’m the danger already.”
In that charged moment, the only need that filled me was to touch her. My right hand seemed to move on its own accord as it moved towards her, to claim something I had no right to. Her eyes remained locked on mine as my fingers moved almost touched the side of her face. Then I regained control.
Jaw tight, I stopped myself and dropped my hand.
Fuck.
I pivoted and left the room, the sound of the door a welcome silence breaker. The fact that she didn’t make any attempt to move or stop me was practically driving me crazy.
She was probably plotting to hit me with a hard slap.
As I walked away from her door, I realized, with brutal clarity, that Elena Vasiliev wasn’t my hostage.
She was my responsibility. And possibly, my undoing.
Chapter Five
Elena’s POV
The room felt different after Damian left.
Not physically—same sparse furniture, same barred window casting prison-stripe shadows across the floor, same door that locked from the outside. But something fundamental had shifted in the space between us, in the dynamics of the captor and captive relationship he had been bent on enforcing since he and his men took me.
