Page 6 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

I can’t believe that just happened.

I feel like a moth scorched—almost destroyed—by an intense flame.

Dazed, I peel off my navy-blue apron and gloves, shooting a quick look at the manager to signal that I’ll return shortly.

The big man with a neat buzz cut and a terrifying viper tattoo inked down the side of his neck doesn’t appear pleased, but he rolls his eyes and dismisses me with a curt nod after mouthing, “Two minutes.”

I don’t hesitate.

Once inside the bathroom, I hurry to the vanity and turn on the faucet. The weight slightly eases from my chest as I splash cool water on my face and shut off the tap. All that’s left is the sound of water going down the drain and the echo of my harsh breathing in my ears.

I straighten up, glaring at my reflection through the mirror. Wet strands of hair stick to my forehead and the sides of my face, and there’s a crease between my brows.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath. I look like a stray cat that got caught in a downpour.

Audrey, get yourself together, will you?

With a sigh, I drag my fingers through my ponytail, taking my scrunchie off, and my hair falls below my shoulders in soft waves, framing my jawline and the sides of my neck.

I stare at the mirror again, with a deep frown this time.

How truly pathetic it is for a girl like me to harbor such a silly, childish crush on a man like him.

Igor Nazarov, staring at me? Yeah, maybe it was all in my head.

I’m well aware he’s way above my league in everything: experience, wealth, status, age. A man like him has options. He could get any woman he wanted with a simple eye twitch. I know this.

And yet...

And yet nothing.

I know my manager is counting down the minutes, waiting impatiently for my return. I start for the bar, closing the bathroom door behind me as I step into the narrow corridor.

The neon ceiling light flickers and I keep my gaze pinned to the floor, slowing down my steps as I attempt to rearrange my hair into a ponytail.

“Wear it down.”

My head snaps up with lightning speed at the commanding, gravelly baritone, and my jaw drops shamelessly at the sight of the person standing right in front of me.

The corridor is dimly lit, but I would recognize that six-foot frame and dark suit anywhere in the world.

I’d studied him, engraved his striking features at the back of my mind, from the first day I walked through the doors of Cascade after being hired as a level-one bartender.

I know the owner of that firm mouth and chiseled jaw.

It’s him.

“You look...better with your hair down,” he says, one hand in the pocket of his pants, unreadable eyes observing me.

He looks like one of those bad boys from a romance novel.

My mind goes blank and I remain rooted to the spot, my hand still gripping my hair above my head. The ache in my arm barely even registers.

Remember what I said about gawking like a hopelessly bedazzled spectator?

I’m doing it again, and I can’t seem to stop.

The scent of his cologne surrounds me, almost knocking me off my feet.