Page 68 of The Bratva Betrayal

His hazel eyes dance with excitement over the ideas of what that could mean, and a dinner that costs a couple of bands is nothing to him.

My pussy, however, is exclusive.

Power.

The daughter of a powerful Irish mobster.

And now, I’m starting to wonder who’s playing who? Did Misha get one up on me, or is he still that dense?

Now, I don’t know.

Misha motions for the bill and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Your place or mine.”

You mean your brother’s?

“Depends.”

He perks a brow. “On?”

“Wherever your brother isn’t.” Misha stares at me. “I’m hoping you’ll make me scream tonight.”

Misha wastes no time standing, plucking out his wallet and tossing a bunch of bills on the table.

He doesn’t count them.

Sex is his language, and I just spoke it the way he understands it.

Rounding the table, he reaches out and gives me his hand. I take it and allow him to lead me out. He calls one of his men to get my car home; he’ll drive me in the morning.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’re going to feel me for days,” he murmurs against my hair, and I hear the satisfaction in his voice. He thinks he's won something.

Let him believe whatever he wants to believe.

As long as it keeps me from having to face Artem alone, I’ll let him touch me all night just so I don’t fall into the arms of the devil.

15

Cady

Killian's idea of a perfect birthday is lamb so tender it falls apart, candles on a cake, and no one to make him feel like he has to be anything other than himself for a single hour.

So that's what I gave him.

The dining room at Da's estate is warm and low-lit, the long mahogany table loaded with every comfort food Killian has loved since we were kids.

Nothing over the top, just good food and the right people crowded around a table.

I love nights like this.

More specifically, I like having something to do with my hands.

There's always a glass to refill, a plate to check on, a reason to be in motion rather than sitting still long enough for someone to ask me something I don't want to answer. Hosting is the socially acceptable version of hiding, and I've been doing it since I was sixteen.

Killian is in his element. His tie is loosened, his hair is a mess, and he’s laughing too loudly at his own jokes while his friends try to get a word in edgewise.

Rian stands near the fireplace with a whiskey. He’s not capable of fully relaxing, but he’s trying his best out of love for his brother. I catch him almost smiling at something Killian says, and it softens something in my chest.

I love them both so much.