Page 2 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

I didn't have to look up to know he was frowning, staring at me like I was trash.

I could picture it—if I said any of what I'd been thinking, he'd carve me up with even sharper words. Slut. Dirty. Names that would cling to me forever.

"I will," I said, nodding, trying to get away fast.

He didn't seem satisfied with just chewing me out.

"Listen, Elena. Don't think I don't know what you're thinking." He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head up until I had to meet his eyes. "You'd better not do anything that stains the Rossi name. Or I won't let you off."

Pain flared across my scalp so hard my eyes stung.

"Father—"

He nearly ripped my hair out. No matter how I begged, he didn't budge.

Only when someone glanced our way did he let go.

"Get back to your room."

Then he walked toward the guests again, that perfect social smile snapping right back onto his face.

I breathed out, rubbing my arms where goose bump had popped up from the shock, and left the hall.

Kiryan had arranged a room for each of the three of us in the lounge wing. A few hours earlier, Isabella had looped her arm through his and told me and Father that every room had floor-to-ceiling windows with a gorgeous night view. She practically glowed while she talked about how thoughtful Kiryan was.

My nose burned. The ache closed in again.

The hallway swayed under my feet. The long corridor lined with Persian carpet felt endless. My head was packed with alcohol, fermented grapes threatening to split me open.

Who cared? I almost wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep there. Nobody would care if I lived or died.

"360—7." I read the plaque, made sure it was mine, and pushed the handle down.

The second I opened the door, heat and scent rushed into my nose—something that made my skin flare hot.

Then I saw it. A scene I would never forget.

Kiryan sat in a chair, his shirt open, his pants shoved down to his thighs. His cock was out, and his fist worked it—up, down, relentless. It looked thick and long, hard as hell, the tip dark red with need.

It was unfamiliar in a way that made my throat tighten. I'd drawn nude bodies before, but I'd never really looked at what men carried between their legs.

His head tipped back, eyes closed, a slight furrow between his brows. A few strands of dark brown hair fell across his forehead. The too-calm face I knew had tightened with strain. The faint scar along his chin flashed in and out of shadow.

It was obscene. It was beautiful.

But—why was Kiryan in my room? My brain blanked for a beat.

Then I looked back at the numbers on the door, and they snapped into focus through the haze.

3601.

3601 and 3607 were practically the same.

Cold shock hit me. I'd walked into the wrong room. I'd walked into Kiryan's room—and caught him jerking off.

I backed up half a step. The dizziness and nausea from the alcohol vanished in an instant.

"Isabella—" he groaned her name, rough and thick.