Page 36 of Scarred Bratva King

18

VERONICA

The supplier’s showroom is nothing short of magical. Rows of polished bookshelves, plush armchairs, and warm-toned lamps create a maze of possibilities.

The air smells faintly of cedar and fresh varnish, and the soft hum of jazz plays in the background.

“How did you find this place?” I ask as we weave our way through.

“Elena found it.”

The staff step aside as we march past, looking intimidated. I can see why. Maxim’s presence is as commanding here as it is in the mansion, though he seems softer somehow. Less like the intimidating Bratva boss and more like a man who belongs in this space, among the shelves.

I pause in front of a corner display featuring a cozy setup: a deep armchair, a side table, and a lamp that casts an inviting glow. “Something like this,” I say. “I want the bookstore to feel inviting, like a place where people can lose themselves.”

Maxim nods, his expression thoughtful. “A corner like that could work. You’d want to place it near a window, though. Natural light makes a difference.”

I blink at him, surprised. “You know about interior design? How come?”

He shrugs, his hand brushing mine as he moves to a nearby bookshelf. “One, Elena talks about this shit all the time. Which means Dmitri does. Which means I hear it. Two, when I was a kid, there was a bookstore near my house. It was a place I’d go to when I didn’t want to think about anything else.”

I study him, trying to imagine a younger Maxim, hiding away in a bookstore. It’s hard to picture him as anything other than the intense, guarded man I’ve come to know. But this glimpse into his past feels like a gift, a piece of him he doesn’t share easily.

“What did you read?” I ask, stepping closer.

He runs his fingers over the edge of a shelf, his gaze distant. “Everything. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, even some Westerns. Learn to understand you Americans.”

“Learned. Past tense.”

His eyes narrow for a moment. “Learned. Of course.”

I turn away, pretending to examine a set of bookends shaped like owls, but I can feel him watching me.

“What about you?” he asks after a moment. “Why a bookstore?”

I trace the edge of one of the bookends, my fingers brushing the cool metal. “Because books were all I had growing up. My dad used to read to me before he got sick. After he died, well, books were my escape then too.”

He steps closer, his voice softer now. “And your mother? Did she ever read to you?”

“She wasn’t exactly the nurturing type,” I say, my tone flippant to cover the sting of the words. “Let’s just say I got very good at fending for myself.”

His hand brushes mine again, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver up my spine. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

I glance up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “Yeah, well I learned one thing from her.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’ll never treat my kids the same way. Never, ever walk out on them.”

He kisses my cheek. “I think you’ll make a good mother.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be affectionate,” I say quickly, trying to lighten the mood. “There’s no one important watching.”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that makes my heart race. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he murmurs.

And then his mouth is on mine.

This kiss is slow, deliberate, and intoxicating. His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer as his lips move against mine with a mix of dominance and tenderness that leaves me breathless. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him as the rest of the store falls away.

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