Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I look into his eyes, brooding and intense. He’s so big, he blocks the sun. I shiver.
When his hand reaches out to me, I’m holding my breath. His fingers graze my chin, ensuring my gaze doesn’t leave his. “Maybe I’ll let you test me—see how far you can push me before I let you see whose queen you are.”
“But you… you don’t even know me,” I whisper.
“Don’t I?” He leans in closer, and it sets my nerves on edge. I don’t like feeling like he’s prying into my mind, like he knows more than I want him to. I turn away, and when he takes a step toward me, I try to push past him.
He catches my wrist and twists gently but firmly until I’m facing him again. My breathing’s hitched, and his is labored through the mask.
“Take it off,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “The mask.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. The stillness unnerves me. Then, slowly, his hands rise. He pulls at the edges of the mask with deliberate care, like he’s revealing a weapon instead of his face.
My hands still over his. “Let me,” I whisper.
A thrill races through me when he drops his hands and nods. I feel as if I’m lifting a curtain because we both know—once that mask is off, there’s no going back. It’s a step toward each other we can’t undo.
My heart races as I slowly lift the fabric. It catches on stubble. When I slide my hand beneath it, he stifles a shiver of his own, a groan trapped in his throat. His big hand spans my waist.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
That strong, masculine cut of his jaw. Olive skin. Wicked, full lips slightly parted.
Just before I lift the mask completely, he uses one of his hands to help me and pulls the mask off the rest of the way.
And when he does, it hits me like a punch to the gut.
I know him.
Not from his voice or the way he moves. No, it’s that face—sharp jawline, those dark, brooding eyes, and the faint scar that cuts across his brow. He’s been at my gym. Watching me. He’s the guy who challenged me, who watched me, his intensity making my stomach churn with something between fear and fascination.
I pride myself on noting details. I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out sooner.
I pull back.
“You,” I whisper, the word escaping before I can stop it. My pulse thunders in my ears, and my hands tighten around the forgotten coffee cup like it’s my only lifeline.
His smirk, slight but unmistakable, curls at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been watching you,” he admits, his voice a low rumble that feels more intimate than it should. “And you noticed. Didn’t you?”
I want to argue, to deny it, but I can’t. Of course I noticed. You don’t forget someone who looks like him—especially not when they watch you like you’re the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen. But it doesn’t explain why. Why hide? Why now?
“Why the mask?” I ask, shaking my head, forcing my voice to stay calm, controlled. “Why all the games?”
His smirk fades, replaced by something darker, heavier. “Because I didn’t lie, little queen,” he says simply like it’s a fact as immovable as gravity. “My name is Rodion Kopolov. Third in command to the Kopolov family Bratva. I could be put away or killed if I put my face online.” He shrugs. “Also? You like it.”
And yet… it’s like the reality of it is so out of the ordinary that I can’t quite make sense of it all. I’m torn. The audacity makes my blood boil, and yet I can’t ignore the pull of his words. He’s not entirely wrong. Intrigue has always been my drug of choice.
But I’m hung up on… Bratva.
He’s real, dangerous, and standing too damn close. Sure, he could be lying, but somehow I know he isn’t. There’s a sort of cognitive dissonance. He’s standing before me, the mark of the Bratva on him. He says he is Bratva.
“I don’t like this,” I snap, stepping back.
Now I’m the one lying.
I am definitely the one lying.
“Yes, you do,” he says with that wicked grin that makes my brain short-circuit. “I’ve read your posts, Ember. I know what you want, what you dream about when no one else is watching. I’ve watched every one of your videos on repeat. I’ve looked at the books you read. I know every fantasy you’ve imagined, and I know if you really had a problem with me, you would’ve blocked me a long time ago. And you haven’t. I took risks making those videos, because I know… I’m the one that can give you want you really want.”
My heart slams against my ribcage. I should be angry. Hell, I am angry. But beneath it, there’s something else—something I don’t want to name. Something dangerous.