Page 65 of Bratva Baby

He looks at me like he expected that and is already halfway to yes. “You’ll get them.”

“And I want updates when the relay moves.”

“You’ll get enough.”

“That means you’re still filtering.”

“That means I’m still in charge.”

I stare at him, and he stares back. After a minute, I sigh and relent. “Fine.”

His hand settles at my waist again, just there like it belongs. “We’ve got a plan,” he says.

“We’ve got the start of one.”

His thumb shifts once against my side. That tiny movement does too much to me and he feels it immediately. Anton notices everything when it matters and far too much when it comes to me.

He looks at my mouth.

I look at his.

And there it is again, that hard pull between us that turns every sensible conversation into something that feels one bad decision away from a bed.

“You’re doing it,” he says quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re deciding whether to insult me or take my shirt off.”

I roll my eyes, but the heat in my face gives me away. “Maybe both.”

His smile is indecent. “That’s my favorite version of you.”

I put a hand flat against his chest, meaning to push him back enough to breathe, and end up just feeling him there. Hard muscle under the shirt, warm skin under that, heart steady in a way that annoys me more now than when I first met him.

“You came home from a meeting where men discussed my existence like logistics,” I say. “Why are you still impossible?”

“Why are you still this beautiful when you’re angry?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No. It’s me getting distracted.”

Maks is moving, Varga is gone, the relay matters, and Anton has a narrow window to keep his place in a Brotherhood that already doubts his judgment on me. This is not the time to let him put his hands on me and erase my good sense.

My hand slides up into his shirt anyway.

His breath changes. “That’s not helping,” he says.

“You started it.”

He holds back long enough to say, “I absolutely did.” Then he kisses me, mouth on mine, one hand at the back of my neck, the other at my waist pulling me out of the chair and into him in one smooth move that leaves no room for second thoughts. I make a small sound against his mouth that I’d be embarrassed by if he weren’t swallowing it whole.

This man.

I’ve been angry at him for days. I’ve wanted him for longer. I kiss him back harder.

His hand slides down my spine, broad and firm and claiming more than he has any right to. Mine drag up into his hair and hold. He likes that. I can tell by the way his mouth shifts, by the rough sound he makes into the kiss, by the way his body crowds mine until the edge of the desk presses into my hip.