Page 48 of Bratva Hostage

“It’s not a demand for anything. I’d just like to get to know my wife a little better. Whatever you want to tell me.”

That’s not an easy question. It’s not that I don’t have an answer; it’s that I don’t know which one to give. He’s never asked me anything that wasn’t strictly necessary before. He’s never acted like he wanted to know me outside of my connection to my father.

But now, the way he’s looking at me—there’s more to it than that.

I swallow and pick at the edge of the tablecloth. “Um. I guess I’m a big reader. Always have been. When I was a kid, I used to get in trouble for staying up late because I was reading under the covers with a flashlight.”

He leans back in his chair, watching me. “Yeah?”

“Back when my mother was alive, before my father became… who he is now, he used to bring me books. Mostly novels, along with history and politics. After she died, he stopped, but I kept reading. I suppose it was the only thing I had left that was really mine. It was the one way I could escape from everything else. And it stuck. I still spend most of my time with a book in hand. Even now, despite being surrounded by people, it feels like something that is just mine.”

I swirl the wine in my glass, smiling faintly. “I used to think I’d travel one day. See the places I read about.”

Dimitri doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is quieter than before. “And now?”

I look down at the deep red liquid in my glass. “Now, I don’t think much about the future.”

“You should.”

I glance up. “Why?”

“Because you’re not your father. You don’t have to be trapped by the life he built.”

I let out a slow breath. “That’s easy for you to say. You were born into power.”

He presses his lips together and averts his eyes. “Power doesn’t mean freedom.”

Something in his voice makes me pause. I don’t know much about what his life was like before he became the man sitting in front of me now. I’ve heard whispers, of course. Stories of the Barkov brothers and their rise through the Bratva. But those are just stories. In this life, the truth is often something else entirely.

I study him, admiring the way the candlelight casts shadows over the angles of his face. He doesn’t look at me. He looks like he’s lost in thought. Lost somewhere far away.

I don’t know why, but I reach out and cover his hand with mine.

Dimitri flinches like he’s waking up from a dream. He looks down at my hand resting lightly over his, and for a second, it seems like he wants to pull away. But then, he doesn’t.

For the first time, I can see the cracks in the armor. For the first time, I can glimpse the man underneath.

“What about you?” I ask. “Did you ever want something different?”

“I didn’t have time to want anything else.”

I wait, giving him space to say more if he wants to. I don’t expect him to take it.

But he does.

“My father raised us to be what we are. There was no question, no alternative. When I was young, I thought maybe I’d be different. Maybe I’d get out before it became permanent. But then…” He trails off and drags a hand through his hair. “Then it didn’t matter anymore.”

I don’t push. If I’ve learned anything about Dimitri, it’s that he won’t say more than he wants to. Instead, I say, “Sounds lonely.”

He looks at me. There are layers behind his gaze, something dark and haunted and unspoken. Something that makes me feel like I’m treading on dangerous ground.

He turns his hand over and slides his palm against mine, brushing his thumb over the back of my wrist. A shiver runs up my arm.

I tell myself to pull away, but I can’t. It feels like I’m suspended in time, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for whatever is happening between us to pass.

It doesn’t.

He traces the curve of my hand, and my skin prickles in its wake. There are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t let himkeep touching me, but my pulse pounds in my ears, and I can’t think past the soft brush of his fingers against my palm.

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