The Doctor Wife: A Bratva possession のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 36

Dante’s POV Days later and I still can’t shake the image of Viktor’s hand on her jaw, his mouth forming the word “Mine” like she already belonged to him. Every time I close my eyes I see it, and every time the rage comes back hotter than before. I’m taking her with me today. Not because she needs to be at the meeting, but because I need her close. Need to feel her breathing beside me, warm and alive, so I remember exactly what the fuck I’m fighting for. The black Escalade cuts through Midtown traffic. Elena sits beside me in the back, legs crossed, black dress riding up just enough to show the smooth line of her thigh. She stares out the tinted window at the skyscrapers sliding past, but I can feel the tension rolling off her. She knows I’m wired. She knows why. I reach over and slide my hand onto her knee, squeezing once. Hard. Possessive. “You good, baby?” She turns her head, meets my eyes. “You’re the one who looks like he’s about to snap someone’s neck.” I smirk. “That’s be

Elena’s POVThe ballroom at the Plaza is drowning in gold and crystal. Chandeliers throw fractured light across marble floors like broken diamonds. Everyone here wears money the way normal people wear clothes.My backless black gown slides against my skin with every step, cool silk kissing my spine from neck to tailbone. The slit up the thigh flashes leg with each movement. Dante picked it. Insisted on it. Said it would make every man in the room remember exactly who I belong to.He wasn’t wrong.Heads turn as we walk in, his hand low on my back, thumb brushing bare skin just above the dip of my spine. I feel exposed. Powerful. And furious at how much I like the way people stare.The charity is for some children’s hospital. Ironic. The richest people in New York pretending they care while they sip two-hundred-dollar champagne and whisper about who’s fucking who.Dante leans down, lips brushing

Elena’s POVThe first shot shatters everything.Glass explodes inward from the massive ballroom windows, raining down like deadly confetti. Screams rip through the air, sharp and panicked. Tables flip. Chairs topple. People dive under anything they can find.Dante’s men are already moving, guns drawn, forming a loose perimeter around us. Return fire cracks from the balcony doors, from the mezzanine, from somewhere high across the street. Bullets chew marble, splinter wood, punch through velvet drapes.Dante shoves me behind a fallen pillar, his body a solid wall between me and the room. “Stay down!”I don’t.I see him first — the young guard, barely twenty, the one who always brought me coffee in the mornings at the estate. He’s sprawled on his back near the orchestra pit, blood blooming dark across his white shirt, chest heaving too fast, too shallow.He’s st