Page 35 of The Bratva Betrayal

I step back. Not from the situation, but from him. I don’t want his hands on me anymore. I don’t want his voice or him looking at me.

He’s disgusting.

He’s a boy.

I wipe my face carefully with the edge of my fingers, catching a smear of blood.

But I don’t feel shaken, not as I should.

I feel violated and watched.

Misha keeps talking and pacing, but I stop listening. His voice blends into the background noise of the lobby, too loud, unfocused, and far too removed from what just happened.

Because he thinks it’s about him.

“Move her.”

My body reacts to his voice before my brain catches up, tension pulling through me as I turn toward it.

Artem crosses the lobby like he was always going to end up here, like the timing isn’t strange, convenient, or worth questioning. There’s nothing rushed about him, and that sets something uneasy in my chest.

Men who arrive like that usually aren’t reacting.

They’re executing.

For a second, I just watch him. The dark hair that looks like he ran a hand through it on the way over, the way his shoulders carry his size without effort. He’s built solid, controlled strength in every line of him, and there isn’t a single part that feels accidental.

His eyes move first to Misha, then to me, then to the faint smear of blood I just wiped from my cheek.

“Move her.” His tone is rougher this time.

Misha blinks. “What?”

Artem doesn’t look at him when he answers. “Unless you want her bleeding in front of half the building, move her upstairs.”

Misha straightens beside me. He doesn’t like being told what to do, but right now, he doesn’t have a better option.

“We should get her checked first.” His hand hovers at my arm. “She might need stitches.”

“She needs to not stand here.” Artem glances at him, his expression flat in a way that doesn’t invite pushback. “You called me to handle it. Let me handle it.”

The difference between them couldn’t be clearer if it tried.

Misha reacts.

Artem decides.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself, then reach into my bag for my keys, because arguing right now is pointless.

The sting along my cheek pulses again, reminding me this is real. It happened, and I’m still standing in the middle of it.

We move together without another argument, the elevator doors sliding open just as we reach them.

Misha steps in first this time, like he’s trying to reclaim control, and I follow, aware of Artem right behind me as the doors close.

Misha pulls his phone back out. “I’m calling for backup. I’m not taking chances.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Artem mutters, huddled in the corner with his arms crossed.