Page 4 of The Bratva Betrayal

I lean back on the coffee table, bracing my hands on either side of me. “You want to try that again?” I ask. “Or are we done pretending you’re browsing for dresses at three in the morning?”

Her lips press together for a second, then part again.

Still thinking. Calculating.

Everything about her is controlled, and that’s what makes this worse. If she were panicking, I’d already be done with this conversation.

But she’s not.

She’s choosing every move.

“You’re very observant,” she says finally.

“Occupational hazard.”

I lean forward, close enough now that I can see the tiny freckles across her nose and the way her lashes cast faint shadows under her eyes from the low light in the room.

Close enough to notice the faint rise and fall of her chest.

Too close for this to be anything casual.

“Here’s what I don’t understand.” My voice is quieter now. “You’re smart enough to know whose house you’re in and whose laptop that is. What happens if you get caught doing this.”

She lifts her chin. “Maybe I’m not as careful as you think.”

“No.” I lock my eyes on hers. “You’re more.”

She didn’t expect that answer. She expected me to underestimate her.

My gaze drops to the laptop again, then back to her. “So, I’ll ask you one more time. And I’d think very carefully about how you answer. What are you doing, Cady?”

This time, the pause is longer. She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the truth, or at least part of it.

That’s new.

People don’t usually look at me like that. They either lie or they don’t get the chance.

“If I tell you,” she says slowly, “you’re not going to like it.”

A humorless huff escapes me. “I don’t like you in my house. We’re already past that.”

Her mouth twitches like she wants to smile but thinks better of it. “Tell me, Artem, is it true what they say?”

“We’re not changing the damn subject, and we sure as hell aren’t gonna start flirting.”

“Do you fuck like you kill?” She leans forward, and I don’t expect that. “Fast, hard, and bloody.”

My eyes narrow. “You won’t find out, so why does it matter?”

“Curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. And, in this case, it’s going to be the Lisichka if you don’t answer my fucking question.”

This time, she releases a full-on smile, and it’s breathtakingly dangerous on her.

I see what Misha sees in her, but she’s so much more than surface-level beauty. She’s an Irish princess who is secretly stealing intel from the bratva, apparently fluent in subtle manipulation and possibly mafia espionage.

“It was nice talking to you, Artem.” She removes the laptop from her lap and places it gently on the cushion next to her.