Page 5 of The Bratva Betrayal

Like she didn’t just walk into my house, into my space, and turn this into something I can’t immediately shut down.

I watch her.

The way she stands, unhurried. The way her fingers smooth over the fabric of her shorts—thin, soft, and barely there. The tank slips a little more off her shoulder when she straightens, exposing skin that shouldn’t matter but does.

It’s not intentional, and that’s what makes it worse.

Nothing about her feels forced. No overdone seduction or obvious play for attention. It’s quieter than that. Subtle. Built into the way she moves, the way she looks at me.

Conniving.

Pretty girls get by on looks.

Girls like her weaponize them.

Hide everything sharp behind something soft enough that most men don’t think to question it until it’s too late.

My brother doesn’t see it. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.

Either way, it makes him a liability.

She steps around the coffee table, close enough that I catch the faint scent of whatever she used earlier—something light, not overly sweet, just enough to linger.

“Cady.” I stop her before she reaches the door.

She glances back at me over her shoulder. Her blue eyes don’t waver when she looks at me with cool and collected bravado.

“Be careful,” I tell her.

If she’s playing a game here, she’s stepped onto a board where I don’t lose.

Her lips curve again, not the same smile as before, but close enough to feel like she’s still one step ahead.

“I always am,” she says.

She opens the door and slips out, soft footsteps fading down the hall until the house goes quiet again.

I let her presence linger in a room she had no business being in.

Finally, I look down at the laptop.

Slowly, I reach for it and pull it onto the table, flipping the screen back open. Chrome is still up, front and center.

Rows of dresses fill the page—different colors, different cuts, something about spring collections and new arrivals. Harmless. Pointless. Exactly the kind of thing she said she was doing.

My tongue presses against the inside of my cheek as I scroll.

No obvious traces. No mistakes.

Clean.

Too clean.

I lean back, eyes still on the screen, and let out a quiet breath. “Bullshit.”

There’s no way that’s all she was doing, not with the way she was typing and with the way she looked at me.

Not with who she is.