Page 7 of The Bratva Betrayal

My fingers hover over it for a second before I close the notebook.

“Running already?”

I roll my eyes as Misha’s voice comes out rough with sleep but amused enough that I’d try such a thing.

I zip my bag slowly, then stand, smoothing my hair back with my fingers.

“Relax.” I glance over my shoulder at him. “If I were leaving, you’d know.”

Misha’s propped up on one elbow, watching me with a lazy, confident smile that probably works on most girls.

It almost does on me.

Until I saw his brother.

“Yeah?” he says. “How’s that?”

“I wouldn’t bother being quiet.”

That earns me a laugh as he sits up fully and runs a hand through his hair. The sheets slide down his torso, revealing more of his muscular frame. Men like him are always built like they expect trouble.

Or invite it.

“Come back to bed,” he says like it’s a suggestion.

There’s value in staying. In keeping him interested and engaged. The more he likes me, the less he watches me. The more he talks.

There’s also power in not giving too much.

I walk back over anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed instead of climbing in, and trail my fingers lightly over his shoulder.

He leans into it like a cat, predictable again, and I let a small smile slip through.

“Breakfast.” He catches my wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it. “We’ll go out. There’s a place⁠—”

“You’re trying too hard.”

He grins against my skin. “Is it working?”

I pull my hand back slowly, letting the moment stretch. “Maybe.”

Misha shifts closer, his hand finding my waist again, and pulls me toward him.

He’s warm, solid, and easy to fall into if I let myself.

I let him kiss me anyway. Softly at first, then deeper when I don’t pull away. It’s all very practiced and smooth, because he knows what he’s doing.

I know why I’m letting him do it. Information comes more easily when people think you’re distracted.

His attention slips when he thinks he’s won something, and that’s how he sleeps so peacefully at my side.

Dead to the world.

No clue that I broke into his laptop last night.

“Stay,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Get dressed.” I pull back just enough to break the rhythm. “You promised me breakfast.”