Page 93 of The Bratva Betrayal

“Don’t be like that.” His grip tightens in warning that I should stop fighting. “I missed you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Something flickers across his face.

“You’re in a mood.”

“I’m tired,” I grind out. “Let go of me. Now.”

His hands stay where they are.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “I sent you two hundred and forty roses.”

This again?

“I know.”

“Two hundred and forty, Cady,” he continues. “You didn’t even mention them.”

“There was nothing to mention.”

“Nothing to—“ He stops, and his confusion now has an edge to it. “I proposed to you.”

“You sent a card that read like a business memo with a lot of flowers I didn’t ask for. That’s not a proposal.”

His glassy eyes bulge in disbelief. “Most women would’ve been thrilled to receive flowers from me.”

“I’m sure they would have.”

“So, what’s your fucking problem?”

He picked the wrong girl.

“My problem is that it’s midnight,” I convey calmly, “and you’re drunk, and you brought someone into my home. So, for the last time, Misha, go.”

“Why? Because you don’t want me? Is that it?”

“It’s not⁠—“

“Every woman in the club tonight wanted me. Every single one of them, and I came here. For you.” He steps closer, and I step back. “And you’re standing there looking at me like I’m something you scraped off your expensive heels.”

“I’m looking at you like you’re drunk, Misha.”

He scoffs. “You’ve never wanted me. Even from the beginning. You let me touch you and fuck you, but you look at me like you’re somewhere else.”

I don’t respond, which isn’t what he’s looking for.

“Say something,” he demands, squeezing my wrist.

“There’s nothing to say that will make you feel better right now.”

“Try.”

“Misha—“

“Tell me you want to marry me.” His hands come up to my arms, gripping hard now. “Just say it. That’s all I’m asking. Just say you want it.”

“Let go of me.”