Page 37 of The Bratva Betrayal

He perks a brow before he closes the small distance between us. “Turn your head, Lisichka.”

“You touch me, and I’ll have you killed.”

His expression darkens. “Now we’re issuing threats?”

“How did you get here so fast?”

“I was in the area.” He reaches for my face, and I slap his hand away. “Touch me again, and I’ll make sure my bullet doesn’t miss.”

I expect him to keep playing the innocent act. To lead me down the path of security, and lead me to believe it was someone else.

I expect him to look appalled.

Instead, his lips curl upward at the corners, and the hairs on my arms stand in silent alarm.

A colder fear creeps up my spine. Men like Artem don’t bluff. They don’t posture for attention or waste energy pretending to be dangerous. They already know they are.

The worst part is the look in his eyes.

Complete calm.

Like the idea of putting a bullet through a woman—particularly one of Irish mob royalty—isn’t shocking to him.

Misha walks back into the room carrying a white first-aid box he probably found by opening every cabinet in my bathroom, unaware of the tension in the air.

“Found it.” He sets it on the marble counter. “Jesus, you two look miserable.”

Artem doesn’t take his eyes off me right away. “That’s because one of us got shot at.”

His eyes drop to the cut on my cheek.

I see him, and he’s not going to fool me.

Misha pops the kit open and looks lost. “Okay… what do we even use?”

Artem finally turns away from me, and I can tell he’s close to strangling his brother. That would make two of us. “Move.”

Misha steps aside without argument, confirming once again how worthless he is as Artem reaches into the kit, pulling things out with practiced ease.

“You act like I’m helpless,” Misha scoffs.

“You are.”

There’s no brotherly love to dull the edge of it, and Misha rolls his eyes like he’s heard it a thousand times.

He probably has.

Artem wets a gauze pad with antiseptic before looking back at me. “Sit down.”

“I can clean my face.”

“I know. You’re still not doing it.”

I want to refuse, but the sooner I abide by his bossiness, the sooner he’ll leave.

So, I sit on the counter stool.

He steps between my knees before I can think to close them. The smell of his cologne settles around me—something dark and clean underneath the faint trace of smoke—and I hate that I notice it.