Page 23 of The Bratva Betrayal

The voice is close enough that my body reacts before my mind does. I straighten and turn toward him without rushing.

Artem stands a few feet away, his darker form cutting through the soft gold of the ballroom lighting. He's dressed well, as always, in a tailored suit that fits him perfectly. Broad shoulders, a solid frame, the kind of build that suggests controlled violence rather than restraint.

His hazel eyes are fixed on me with a level of focus that feels deliberate.

Nothing about him is casual.

My pulse jumps before I push it down and tilt my head. "This is something old." I glance down at my dress before meeting his eyes again. "You don't approve?"

His eyes move over me slowly, assessing. "I didn't say that."

No, he didn't, but his look says more than enough.

I let a faint smile touch my lips anyway, choosing not to acknowledge it. "Then I'll assume you do."

His mouth shifts, not quite a smile and not anything meant to reassure. "Not in the way you're thinking."

"Is complimenting difficult for you?"

"Not at all. Being fake polite to an enemy just isn't something I bother with."

My brows draw together. "Enemy? I'm not⁠—"

"Have you done any more browsing, Lisichka?"

Subtle, but not nearly subtle enough.

Of course, he checked the laptop after I was done.

I let out a quiet breath that might pass as mild amusement, even as my thoughts shift and recalculate. "Do you always keep tabs on your brother's girlfriends?" I ask lightly, folding my arms as I lean back against the table.

"Only the ones who go through his laptop at three in the morning."

That would've landed harder if he hadn't already called me out for it that night. Still, I wonder if he found anything. I was careful, but I wasn't slow.

"You caught me." I give a small shrug. "I have an addiction."

"To shipment logs?"

My smile doesn't falter. "Shopping."

He doesn't react, which isn't surprising.

Pushing off the table, I step a little closer, closing some of the distance between us despite knowing better. "Why are you here?" I ask. "I didn't think charity events were your thing."

"They're not."

"Then what is?" I press. "Because this doesn't match your usual environment."

"I came to donate."

The lie is flat enough that it almost makes me laugh. Instead, I gesture toward the front of the room. "Then you'll want the main table. They can help you over there."

I turn, as if I intend to guide him, even though I'm not buying it.

"You can stop," he says.

I glance back at him. "Stop what?"