Page 56 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“What I want doesn’t matter?”
“What do you want, Janice?”
The question hangs between us. She opens her mouth, closes it again. Looks away.
“I don’t know anymore,” she admits finally. “I wanted revenge for what you did. Wanted to hurt you the way you hurt me. The exposé was supposed to accomplish that.”
“It did.”
“Then I wanted to move on. Build a career, forget you existed, prove I could survive without you.” She laughs, bitter and sharp. “That worked out great.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m married to a man who terrifies me. Who killed three people without hesitation. Who owns this city in ways I’m only beginning to understand.” She turns back to face me. “Now I want to survive. That’s all I have left.”
The defeat in her voice does something unexpected to me. I didn’t want her broken. Didn’t want compliance born from hopelessness.
I wanted her fire. Her defiance. The challenge she represents.
“You’re stronger than you think,” I say quietly.
“Am I? I feel pretty powerless right now.”
“You walked into my office and admitted to writing that exposé. You could have lied, could have denied it, could haveprotected yourself. Instead, you owned it. Threw it in my face like you were proud of what you’d done.”
“I was stupid.”
“You were brave.”
“Bravery and stupidity look the same from certain angles.”
I push off the dresser, closing the distance between us. She tenses but doesn’t retreat.
“You want to know why I really married you?” I ask. “Beyond protection, beyond revenge, beyond all the strategic justifications I gave Damien and Felix and myself?”
“Why?”
“You’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen both the monster and the man. Who didn’t flinch from what I am, but also didn’t worship it. You challenged me. Made me feel something beyond calculated interest.” I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away. She doesn’t. My fingers brush her jaw, tilt her face up to mine. “Four years, and I never stopped wanting that. Wanting you.”
Her breath catches. I can see the war happening behind her eyes—fear battling desire, self-preservation clashing with curiosity.
“I should hate you,” she says.
“You do hate me.”
“Then why do I—” She cuts herself off, but I hear the question underneath.
Why does she want me anyway?
“Hate and want aren’t mutually exclusive,” I answer.
“You’re arrogant.”
“I’m observant.” My thumb traces her lower lip, and she trembles. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t feel this.”
She doesn’t. Can’t. We both know the truth.
This thing between us never died. It just went dormant, waiting for the right catalyst to ignite it again.
