Page 38 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

I hesitate before saying, “I don’t know. Something simple.”

Without another word, he opens the massive refrigerator and starts pulling out ingredients. I see him remove bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes from the fridge and bread from the box on the counter. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s making. “You don’t have to cook for me.”

“I know.” He doesn’t look up from the bacon he’s placing in a pan. “I can though. You’re hungry, and I’m already awake.”

He moves around the kitchen with the kind of effortless precision that speaks to years of practice. He toasts the bread to a perfect golden brown, cooks the bacon until it’s crispy but not burned, and slices the tomatoes with knife skills that would impress a professional chef.

“How do you know how to cook like that?”

He glances at me while he assembles the sandwich, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression that I haven’t seen before. “My parents died when I was sixteen. It was just me and my brother after that.”

The simple explanation makes me blink. I knew his brother was dead. That much was obvious from our conversation at the safehouse, but I hadn’t thought about what their life might have been like before that. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” He sets the sandwich on a plate, cuts it in half, and slides it across the island toward me. “You learn to take care of yourself when you have to.”

I nod in agreement before taking a bite, and it’s perfect. The bacon is crispy, the lettuce is fresh, the tomatoes are juicy, and the mayonnaise is just the right amount. It tastes like comfort food, like something someone who cares about you would make when you’re sad and tired and overwhelmed. My mom made grilled cheese and tomato soup in those times, but this ranks right up there. “This is really good.”

He smiles, looking genuinely pleased. “My brother had specific requirements for his BLTs. I got a lot of practice.”

There’s affection in his voice when he mentions his brother, mixed with a grief that time hasn’t completely healed. It makes him seem more human and less like the dangerous stranger who turned my life upside down.

“What was he like?”

Nikandr leans against the counter and goes still for a moment, considering. “Yaroslav was older than me and the kind of person people listened to. He was also smarter than me and better at keeping things balanced.”

“You loved him.”

“More than anything.” The simple admission seems to surprise him as much as it surprises me. “He was the only family I had left.”

I think about Jessie, how lost I would be without her friendship and support, and I begin to understand why finding his brother’skiller has consumed ten years of Nikandr’s life. “The Irina you’re searching for had something to do with…losing him?”

His expression gets grimmer. “She killed him and disappeared like she never existed.”

The pain in his voice is raw and immediate, like the wound is still fresh despite the passage of time. I want to say something comforting, but what comfort can I offer someone whose entire world was destroyed by an act of violence?

Instead, I take another bite of the sandwich and let the silence stretch between us. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but more like a shared acknowledgment of grief that can’t be fixed with words.

When I finish eating, he takes the plate and washes it in the sink. I watch his hands as he works, remembering how they felt on my skin that night thirteen weeks ago, and something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.

I shouldn’t be attracted to him after everything that’s happened when I’m carrying his child and trapped in his house with no clear path back to my old life, but sitting in this kitchen at midnight, having him take care of me in small, simple ways, I can’t deny part of me still wants him. “Thank you for the sandwich,” I say when he’s finished cleaning up.

He turns to face me, and there’s something in his expression that makes me tremble slightly. Not fully desire, but a kind of careful hope he’s trying to mask. “You don’t have to thank me, Sabrina. Taking care of you isn’t a burden.”

The way he softly says my name, like it means something important, makes my chest tighten with emotions I don’t want to examine too closely.

He moves past me toward the doorway, and for one foolish second, I wish he’d stayed. I wish he’d kissed me goodnight or touched my face the way he did that morning at the safehouse. Why can’t this be simple instead of complicated by pregnancy and danger and the vast differences between our worlds?

Of course, he doesn’t stay, though he pauses in the doorway and looks back at me one more time. “Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be easier.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the lingering scent of his cologne and the dangerous realization that despite everything that’s happened, and all the reasons I should hate him, I’m drawn to him all over again. This time, I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to walk away.

14

Nikandr

For the next three days, I watch her from the study with the camera feeds muted, filled with frustration I can’t quite name. The ice in my glass melts while I sit motionless, tracking her movements across multiple screens like she’s a target instead of the woman carrying my child.

She walks through the halls like she’s trying not to exist. Her shoulders draw in, her movements become careful and deliberate, and her gaze always lowers to avoid meeting anyone else’s. When Eugenie approaches to offer her tea, Sabrina’s smile is distant and forced. When the gardener nods politely as she passes the windows, she flinches slightly before returning the greeting. The sight bothers me.

---