Page 51 of Bound in Possession

He isn't listening. He completely ignores my protests as he turns around, casually fixing his clothes and buckling his belt as if he hadn't just completely unraveled me on a war room desk.

"Unlock the door," I snap, my jaw clenched as I realize he has absolutely no intention of changing his mind.

He walks over to the control panel, hitting the manual override with a calm, deliberate click. The heavy steel door slides open, and the second it does, I turn on my heel and stomp off down the hallway, leaving him standing there.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in the back of a sleek, armored SUV with Nastya. As the car speeds down the highway, weaving through the afternoon traffic, she glances over at me, her sharp eyes taking in my flushed face and rigid posture.

"What is wrong with you?" she asks, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "You look like you're about to murder someone."

I choke back the sudden surge of heat that rises in my throat. I absolutely cannot tell her what her brother just practically put me through on a glass war-room desk, or that I am currently sitting on the leather seat with his hot release still sticking to my thighs, a constant, shameless reminder of his dominance.

I just shake my head, forcing my voice to remain even. "Nothing. Just a long day already. Where are we going anyway?"

Nastya giggles, completely buying the deflection. "We’re going to shop for a dress for you, of course. Tonight’s Bratva dinner is incredibly important, Camilla. The entire council and the allied families will be there. I want you to make a gorgeous, terrifying impression."

She winks at me, pulling a gleaming, black titanium credit card from her designer purse and waving it in the air between us. "Plus, I managed to swipe Maksim's black card before we left. We don’t have to worry about maxing it out. We are going to drain his account."

A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of my lips despite my lingering fury at him. If I have to walk around carrying his mark all afternoon, the least I can do is make him pay for an obscenely expensive wardrobe.

"Let's do it," I say.

Twenty minutes later, the SUV pulls up to a high-end boutique in the city's most exclusive fashion district. The guards step out first, scanning the perimeter before opening our doors. Nastya grabs my arm, pulling me through the glass entrance of the store, and we start shopping.

The first dress I pick is a dark blue, elegant silk gown with a modest neckline. I think it looks sophisticated, but Nastya glances at it and quickly rejects it, shoving the hanger back onto the rack.

"Too safe," she declares, shaking her head.

I sigh, crossing my arms. "It’s a dinner, Nastya. It looks fine."

I figure this is just about appearance and her picky taste, but Nastya’s playful expression suddenly fades, replaced by a deadly seriousness that reminds me exactly what family she belongs to. She steps closer, lowering her voice so the store attendants can’t hear.

"You think this is just about looking pretty, Camilla, but tonight is a test," Nastya explains, her eyes locking onto mine. "The older Bratva men at that table are going to dissect everything you do. They will be watching to see if you are weak, if you are a spoiled princess, if you are too foreign to fit into our world, or worse—if you are easily controllable. If you look soft, they will see you as a vulnerability Maksim can’t afford."

A cold chill settles over me, the sticky reminder of Maksim’s touch between my thighs suddenly feeling like armor. I nod, understanding the assignment immediately. This isn't a party; it's a political battlefield.

As we continue to sift through the aisles, Nastya keeps her hands busy moving hangers, but her mouth moves in a quiet, rapid whisper, feeding me invaluable intelligence.

"Watch out for Uncle Yuri," she murmurs, pretending to admire a beaded gown. "He fears Maksim because Maksim took his territory, but fear makes men desperate. You’ll meet Igor, he hates my brother. He thinks a younger Pakhan is an insult to tradition. And the older captains on the south side—they are greedy. If Viktor offers them a better percentage on the weapons network, they might be tempted to turn."

I listen intently, memorizing every name and every motive. If I’m going to be sitting at that high table, I need to know exactly where the knives are hidden.

Armed with Nastya’s warnings, I push past the pastel silks and the soft, bridal-style lace. I find exactly what I’m looking for at the back of the boutique. It’s a severe, tailored black gown. It has sharp, structured shoulders, a high collar that commands authority, and a thigh-high slit that cuts like a blade. It isn't a dress meant to please a husband; it is a dress meant to intimidate an enemy.

I pull it from the rack and hold it up against my body.

Nastya looks at it, a wicked, triumphant grin spreading across her face. "Perfect."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MAKSIM

The heavy double doors of the private estate's grand ballroom wing open, and the low, rumbling chatter of the Bratva elite instantly dies out. A heavy, suffocating silence blankets the room.

I step across the threshold, and for the first time in my life, I don’t immediately scan the room for threats. My focus is entirely directed inward, fueled by the sheer, unadulterated weight of the woman on my arm.

Camilla looks like a fucking goddess of war.

The severe black dress she chose is lethal. The sharp, structured shoulders add a commanding presence to her frame, while the high collar frames her jawline with a chilling elegance. But it’s the thigh-high slit that cuts with every step she takes, teasing the smooth skin of her leg, that has my blood roaring. I can still feel the faint, possessive thrill in my chest knowing what lies beneath that fabric. She looks sexy as hell, dangerous, and completely untouchable.