Bred By the Masked BRATVA (The BRATVA Masquerade #2)

Ivor

The music is soft, lilting, and sounds expensive.

A string quartet tucked into the shadows of the ballroom plays as if they’ve never known any other life, while masked guests drift across the marble floor in a blur of couture and diamonds.

Laughter clinks like crystal. Perfume and champagne hang thick in the air, heady enough to choke those of us who aren’t drunk enough to be intoxicated by it.

And still, all I taste is resentment.

My father’s words snap through me like a whip every time I look around this room. Find a wife. Breed an heir. Or I’ll pass everything to your cousins.

Cousins who circle like vultures, already eyeing my territory, whispering among themselves as though I’m already buried six feet under.

They’re here tonight too, in their own gilt masks, smug and hungry.

They’ve always hated me for being the son who carried my father’s name, for being the one expected to inherit it all.

They’d kill for this empire. They’ll smile to my face, toast to my health, and dream of driving a knife through my back.

And now my father, in all his wisdom, hands them the very weapon they crave. If I don’t pick a wife tonight, my birthright becomes theirs.

I curl my hand tighter around my tumbler of vodka. The ice clinks. My mask, silver gilt, sharp at the cheekbones, hides my scowl but does nothing to ease the tension in my jaw.

Women move toward me like moths to a flame, each one simpering, swaying, desperate to be chosen. Their voices blur together: compliments, promises, empty laughter. They don’t see me. They see the promise of power and wealth.

I could close my eyes, pluck one at random, and she would bend. Spread her thighs, give me a child, smile at my side even though she would feel just as dead inside. Just as bored.

I want a challenge. A woman who doesn’t fall at my feet simply because of the name I carry. Someone who makes me work, bleed, maybe even burn. My father doesn’t understand that. He thinks obedience makes a good wife. But obedience is suffocating.

The music swells. Couples glide past in a sweep of satin skirts and glittery masks. My gaze drifts from painted lips to manicured hands, searching for something, anything, that doesn’t reek of desperation.

And then—

I see her.

She stands apart, near one of the gilded pillars, a glass of champagne untouched in her hand.

Her mask is simple, black lace that looks chosen for function, not vanity.

Blonde hair pulled back, though a few strands have escaped to frame her face.

She isn’t laughing, isn’t preening for attention. She’s watching.

Eyes sharp behind that mask, scanning the crowd as if she’s cataloguing secrets.

Not a moth. A hawk.

My pulse kicks, unexpected. She doesn’t belong here. Her dress is elegant, yes, but not couture. She holds herself differently. Less like prey, more like a predator trying to pass as one of the herd.

I smile into my glass.

Interesting.

I move through the crowd, deliberate, the way I stalk enemies across a chessboard. A woman in crimson tries to intercept me, pressing her hand to my arm. “Ivor…” she purrs, voice muffled behind a jeweled mask. I don’t slow, don’t spare her a glance. My stride is for one woman alone.

When I reach her, she pretends not to notice me. Pretends she’s absorbed in the swirl of dancers. That little pretense only makes my blood hum louder.

I step close enough for her to feel my shadow fall across her. “You know,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear, “the whole point of a masquerade is the anonymity. You can be anyone you want for one night.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, sharp, assessing. Not shy. Not coy. Testing.

“Is that so?” she says, voice steady. “And what if I like being myself?”

I tilt my head, my silver mask catching the chandelier’s glow.

She lifts the glass to her lips and takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. A calculated pause. A refusal to play by the rules most women would trip over themselves to obey.

And just like that, I know.

She’s the one.

Not because my father demands it, not because she’ll give me an heir, not because she’ll kneel. But because she won’t.

I extend a hand, palm up. “Dance with me.”

Her brows arch behind the lace, but she sets her glass aside and places her hand in mine. Warm. Firm. No tremor of hesitation.

On the dance floor, we slip into the current of bodies, strings sweeping around us. She moves well, both fluid and graceful, but she isn’t trying to dazzle me. No coy giggles, no fluttering lashes. Just a steady gaze that cuts through the mask as if she can see the man beneath it.

I bend close, lips brushing her ear. “Most women here want to be chosen. You look like you’d rather burn the whole place down.”

Her breath hitches, almost imperceptible. Then she whispers back, “Maybe I’m just good at hiding what I want.”

A thrill curls through me, low and dangerous.

She thinks she’s hiding. She thinks this mask protects her.

But she doesn’t realize she’s already mine.

Tonight, she thinks she’s watching me. Watching this world…

She’s not here to be chosen. She’s here for something else.

The violins sweep, and I draw her closer, chest to chest. Her mask tilts up toward me, and I catch the flash of her mouth, lips painted the palest pink, parted just enough for her breath to ghost across my throat.

“What do you want?” I ask. Not as an idle question. As a challenge.

Her eyes spark, and she tips her head, feigning innocence. Maybe the same thing you want? A night of anonymity. A chance to be anyone, with anyone.”

I smile, slow, sharp. “No. I want the truth. Always.”

She huffs out a laugh, not quite genuine. “Truth at a masquerade? That’s a contradiction.”

“Then why do you watch instead of play?” I press. My palm slides lower on her back, testing how far she’ll let me go. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t gasp. Her only betrayal is in the way her pupils darken, swallowing the pale grey of her irises.

“Maybe,” she says, “I like stories more than dances.”

There it is. A crack. A slip.

Stories.

I file it away, even as I spin her into a turn, her skirt whispering across polished marble. She’s sharp-tongued, yes, but not careless. Whatever she’s doing here, she’s guarding it like a secret treasure.

“Stories are dangerous things,” I murmur when I pull her back against me. “They cut deeper than knives. They linger longer than bullets. Tell the wrong story and it can cost a man everything.”

Her throat works as she swallows, but she meets my gaze dead-on. “Tell the right story, and it can make him immortal.”

Bold. Reckless. My cock stirs at the defiance in her voice.

Around us, the masquerade spins on, champagne glasses colliding, velvet laughter, men in their masks whispering filthy promises into desperate ears.

All of it feels staged, empty, background noise.

The only real thing in this entire ballroom is the woman in my arms, baring her teeth through a smile.

I lean close, my lips brushing the curve of her ear. “Careful, little dove. Immortality has a price. And the Bratva always collects.”

She stiffens, just for a moment, before smoothing herself back into composure. That single flicker tells me more than any words could.

She knows.

She knows exactly where she is.

And she walked into the lion’s den anyway.

I can’t decide if she’s suicidal, or if she’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met.

Either way, I want her.

No, need her.

Not because my father commands it. Not because of heirs and ultimatums. But because she’s the first creature in years who looks me in the eye and doesn’t bend.

The music fades into a softer movement, and I slow our steps, keeping her caged in my arms. “Tell me your name,” I demand.

Her lips curve. “Doesn’t that defeat the point of a masquerade?”

My smile sharpens. I knew she’d say that. “Perhaps. But when the masks come off, you’ll still be mine. Name or no name. Story or no story. That isn’t negotiable.”

She draws in a sharp breath, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers tighten around mine. The tremor of it goes straight to my cock, straight to my chest, where hunger and fury twist together until I can hardly breathe.

I don’t care what game she’s playing. I don’t care why she’s here.

She’s already chosen.

She just doesn’t know it yet.