Page 94 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

I stepped in until my shoulder brushed his arm, heat bleeding through fabric.

"Mr. Morozov, place your hand on Ms. Rossi's waist."

His palm settled on my waist.

Even through my dress, I felt every finger. His thumb didn't slide lower, but it tortured me more than a caress.

My spine flared hot.

"Ms. Rossi, rest your hand on his chest."

I lifted my hand and pressed it to his suit. His heart hammered under my palm—faster than mine.

Gray eyes, close enough to drown in. The familiar cedar scent closed over me in an instant.

"Great. Now look at each other."

The flash went off.

His fingers tightened for a split second, then released. That restraint was more dangerous than possession.

"A little closer. Mr. Morozov, lean in. Ms. Rossi, lift your chin."

He bent down. I had to tip my face up. Our mouths hovered a breath apart, warm air brushing my cheek.

The photographer fired off several shots. "Perfect. That's it."

"Last one."

As the shutter clicked, his thumb brushed lightly over the fabric at my waist. Maybe it was nothing. My skin still felt branded.

"All done."

I stepped back. Cold air sliced between us, and the heat from a second ago died instantly.

Two hours were up.

"Time's up," I said.

"I'll take you back."

"No."

He watched me for a few seconds, then only nodded. "Okay."

"And... the two million. Thank you. For the kids." I picked up my clutch and headed for the elevator.

He didn't stop me.

The doors slid open. I stepped in and hit the button for the lobby.

Before they closed, I caught one last look at him standing there—tall, silent, bruise on his cheekbone, the fabric at his knee still creased from where he'd knelt.

"Elena."

I lifted my eyes.

"I won't force you again," he said. "But I won't give up, either."