Bred By the BRATVA Kingmaker (Bred by the BRATVA Las Vegas #3)

Jessica

I pause just inside the glass doors of the Korolyov hotel, grounding myself the way I always do before something important. Breathe in. Take stock. Remember why I’m here.

This job matters.

If I do this right, if I impress the right people, it won’t just be one refurb. It’ll be a relationship. My name passed quietly between investors and owners who don’t advertise how they choose their people. More hotels. Bigger projects. Maybe opportunities that aren’t even in Nevada.

The thought sends a strange flutter through my chest.

I’ve never left the state. Not once. I tell people it’s because I’ve been busy, because I was building something.

Both are true. But there’s another truth I don’t say out loud: staying put has always felt safer.

Like if I stayed still long enough, my past would fade away and be replaced by the amazing things I’ve achieved in spite of it.

Still… the idea of travel sparks something restless and bright inside me. A future that isn’t bound by desert highways and familiar skylines. I push the feeling down and straighten my shoulders.

Focus.

I cross the lobby, heels clicking softly against the floor, and take the private elevator up to the meeting level.

I’ve been over the plans a dozen times already.

I know the numbers. I know the materials.

I know exactly why Jasmine Korolyova liked my work when she saw it in that design magazine last year.

Warm minimalism. Controlled luxury. Spaces that feel intimate without being indulgent.

Apparently, that’s the vibe she wants for the hotel.

Apparently, she also wants me.

The elevator opens onto a sleek conference floor, all glass walls and muted tones. I check in with an assistant, who directs me toward the main boardroom. As I walk, my nerves tighten with anticipation of who I’m about to meet.

The Korolyov brothers.

All five of them.

So far, my only contact has been Jasmine.

Effortlessly beautiful in a relaxed way that only comes from knowing your landing will be soft if you fall.

Sharp-eyed and witty. Warm in a way that makes you want to please her.

She’d been decisive, enthusiastic, and generous with her praise.

But today isn’t about her approval alone.

Today is about the men who own the building.

I step into the boardroom and set my portfolio down, arranging my materials with practiced ease. The room is already filling with architects, consultants, men in suits who look like they haven’t slept enough and don’t care. I nod, smile when appropriate, keep my expression calm and professional.

I’m good at this.

I’ve had to be.

The doors open again, and the temperature in the room shifts.

I don’t look up immediately. I’m adjusting a tablet, pulling up my presentation. I sense them before I see them, the subtle tightening of attention, the way conversations falter mid-sentence.

Then I glance up.

Jasmine enters first, with five men following.

There’s no mistaking that they’re brothers. It’s not just in the way they share some of their features, but they move with a quiet certainty. An unspoken hierarchy hums between them. Power, worn differently on each of them, but unmistakable all the same.

And then there’s him.

I’ve never believed in instant reactions. I’ve always thought attraction was something that built slowly, something you noticed once you decided to look. But the moment my eyes landed on him, my body responded like it’s been waiting for a signal I didn’t know existed.

Heat coils low in my stomach. My pulse jumps. Awareness sharpens to an almost painful clarity.

He’s not in front. He doesn’t need to be. He already looks bored and harassed, like there is somewhere else he has to be, and somewhere else he would rather be. His eyes briefly flick to mine and my breath stutters.

I mask it with a tight smile and a polite nod and will my face not to blush.

Now is not the time to behave like a crush-struck-teenager.

I’ve spent the last ten years focused on work, on survival, on building something solid in an industry that eats people alive if they hesitate. I don’t notice men. Not like this. Not at all.

This feels… invasive. Unwelcome. Like my body has betrayed me.

His gaze sweeps the room once, detached, assessing. When it lands on me again, it doesn’t linger.

I force myself to breathe.

Get it together.

Jasmine catches my eye and smiles, crossing the room to greet me with a light touch to my arm. “Jessica, I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Of course,” I say smoothly. “Thank you for having me.”

“This,” she says, turning back toward the men, “is the designer I told you about.”

Introductions begin. Names pass around the table. I shake hands, meet eyes, keep my composure intact. When she introduces him, his name lands differently. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer anything but a brief, cool acknowledgment.

Great. This is all one sided. Maybe I’m ovulating or something… If I can just get through this meeting, I can leave, and probably have nothing to do with Rurik Korolyov ever again.

As I begin my presentation, I’m acutely aware of him watching me. I tell myself that everyone is looking at me, that’s the point of a presentation. Only there’s something different with him…as if he’s not just listening to what I’m saying, but taking everything about me and memorizing it.

I try to balance out the eye contact between everyone sitting around the table. Try to make it seem like I am unflustered and totally calm when my insides feel like an inferno and are only getting hotter under the steady gaze of his crystal blue eyes.

By the time I finish my presentation and take a small sip of water, I have to tell myself to lower my shoulders and relax my posture.

Then the questions begin.

First the construction company, with a question around timeframes and cost. Then the architect arguing about the clash between my style and his own.

One of the accountants scoffs at the price of the carpets I’ve chosen; despite offering three different price points and then the hotel manager complains about the amount of time it would take to complete the work in stages, so the hotel doesn’t have to close.

I field every single question, one after the other, there’s nothing they can throw at me that I can’t handle. I’m beginning to slip into that feeling of success, I can see I’m winning each of them over. Excitement builds in my chest.

Then Rurik Korolyov says; “I don’t like it.”