Page 97 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

As if she feels me, Sandrine looks up. She frowns immediately seeing what happened on my face. On the outside, I don’t look any different from an hour ago. It’s the inside that’s different. And she could sense it.

“I thought you were going out for the night?” she asks.

I step back, feeling like I’ve invaded her space. “My father is dead.”

Her lips part slightly. “Oh, Kirill. I’m sorry. How? What happened?”

“He got what he deserved,” is all I say.

Lights flash through the window, and she stands to look into the courtyard below. “It’s the medical examiner,” she informs, pulling a drapery panel aside.

“They’re taking the body.” I move the curtain back.

As much as I would love to chop him the fuck up and feed him to stray dogs, the man has legitimate wealth that must pass to me. There must be a death certificate to probate his will and transfer holdings.

“I’ll be crowned in three weeks.” My voice sounds flat even to my own ears. “The Bratva moves quickly when a pakhan dies.”

Sandrine studies me carefully, like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m grieving.

I’m not.

“Ksenia will make sure you have what you need for the coronation,” I say, my gaze shifting to the woman who is both familiar and entirely unknown to me. Something quite unsettling. “You will be part of that ceremony as my queen.”

For a moment, the only sound is Violet’s ragged breathing through her mouth.

“Whatever you need from me, Kirill.” My wife stands tall. “I married you willingly. I must have understood what was expected of me.”

“You did,” I confirm, holding her gaze. Then I say the thing I know I shouldn’t. “I killed him.”

Her breath catches. “You… You did?”

I walk closer to her. Slowly, so I don’t frighten her. “He disrespected you. Called you a mistake. Said I ruined this family for you.”

Shock and confusion flicker across her face. Guilt, too. “Kirill. I never wanted to be⁠—”

“I chose you. I’m still choosing you,” I interrupt roughly. “He was already dying, but I wanted him to know exactly why his reign ended.”

“Kirill,” she whispers again, softer this time.

I brace for fear. For disgust.

Instead, her hand comes up slowly to my jaw. My body reacts with a surge of lust from the gentleness of it.

“You loved me that much?” she asks softly.

The question guts me.

I grab her wrist and pull her against me hard enough to make her gasp. My mouth crashes into hers before I can answer properly. There are no words for this rush inside me.

Five years of obsession. Rage. Grief.

And now relief.

With her hands on my chest, I kiss her deeper, rougher, backing her against the wall. She groans against my mouth, and that nearly destroys what little control I have left.

Mine.

Every violent part of me settles when she melts into me like this.