Page 42 of Bound By the Bratva

That night at dinner,I wait until the second course. The lights cast a muted glow across the long table, reflecting faintly in the silverware. The wine, untouched by either of us, sits in crystal glasses that catch the light but offer no warmth. Rolan eats with one hand while the other rests on the table beside his plate, and it feels like if he had a gun, his fingers would be wrapped around the pistol grip.

"I want to make a bet," I say. My fork stays suspended above the plate, hovering with a piece of meat skewered there. I already know this could go badly, but it has to be done. It may be my only chance at getting Niklai away from him once and for all. And I know a Vetrov can never turn away from a wager. It's written in their fucking DNA.

He doesn't glance up. He keeps cutting his food with slow precision, with disinterest in what I'm saying. Once Nikolai had his chicken nuggets and apple slices and left the table, Rolan lost all interest in conversation.

"A real one." I keep my eyes on him, refusing to blink, refusing to let him turn this into another unspoken no. He will listen to me, because if he doesn't, I plan to make him listen—maybe with my feminine wiles. It's been long enough that he's probably aching for release.

He slices into the chicken and shoves a bite into his maw. "Go on." He finally looks up at me with calculation, like he’s testing the limits of what I’ll ask. He has no clue.

"The filly against your stallion—that private race your stablemaster mentioned. If the filly wins, Nikolai and I go free." My chest rises, but I don’t breathe until I finish speaking. When he looks at me, I suddenly feel like this isn't such a great idea. He's a criminal and a thief, and I'm nothing but a waitress and a failure as a mother.

Rolan's expression doesn’t change as he wipes his mouth with the corner of his napkin, considering what I've said. He doesn’t rush an answer as he thoughtfully chews his bite of food, but his eyes narrow on me.

"And if mine wins?" His tone is casual, but there’s something darker in it, which is what I'm afraid of. But backing out now will look weak.

"Then I stay," I reply. "No more games. I stop trying to leave. I accept the terms and I become your wife in the fullest sense of the word." I rest my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking. I won’t show him fear—even though that's what I feel. Terror—horrific, punishing, traumatic terror.

He leans back. "You think that horse will give you a future?" He narrows his eyes further, gauging how far I’m willing to go and whether I understand what I’m offering.

"I think she gives me a chance." My voice is steady, but every word costs me. He doesn’t move for a long time. He studies me like I’m a move on a chess board and doing it wrong risks losing everything he has staked a claim to. He knows I’m not his tocontrol, but the greed in his eyes, the hunger for more power, it taunts him.

Rolan sets his fork down. "If you try to run afterward, I keep the boy, and you leave without him—alone." He doesn’t blink. The line is drawn in blood, and he wants to see if I flinch.

I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing. Losing a bet to Rolan Vetrov might mean signing my life away forever. I've seen what he almost did to my father, and I remember what I had to do to get that debt paid. This time, there will be no weekend at a hotel to back out. It's all or nothing.

I look him dead in the eye and brace myself as I say, "It's a deal?"

He lifts his glass with a smirking expression and says, "Then train her well." He waits for me to raise my glass but he doesn’t get one. I refuse to toast him.

With my hands shaking and my heart galloping faster than that filly, I leave him at the table and go find Nikolai. I press my lips to his hair, pull him on my lap, and tell him a story. But the whole time, my mind is already calculating. I taste the edges of freedom, and I’m not letting it slip this time.

22

ROLAN

The estate doesn’t ever truly sleep. Even at dawn, someone’s always moving—cleaning tack, washing down the stone, walking the perimeter for security. I stand on the back terrace, where the crunch of boots across gravel echoes through the still air. From this vantage, I watch the yard in its usual silence. It isn't the peace an average homeowner can enjoy, just a measure of controlled atmosphere I can bank on. It's the most a man like me can ever hope for.

Inside, they’ll be waking soon. She’ll be smoothing the boy’s collar or folding his socks, something gentle to distract herself from the fact that she bet her life on a horse—a wager she will come to regret woefully. I already know the race schedule and I've already signed off on the entries. The filly’s on the sheet, exactly where Anya wants her. What she doesn’t know is that it doesn’t really matter.Naive woman.

I head inside quietly, ready to wake the day and see this thing through. The staff step aside as I pass, but I don’t acknowledge them because I'm too lost in thought. It can't be so easy, can it? To pin Anya to the ground with her own plan… I almost feelguilty that she's walking into this thinking she has a fighting chance. Almost…

Upstairs, the hallway carries the sounds of childhood. Nikolai’s voice—loud, animated—is explaining something, probably to a stuffed animal or the maid. I pause near the door, listening as a smile creeps up. He is so full of life and vigor, the way a child should be. I'll be more careful to instruct my men that our less-seemly business should be handled elsewhere, but in due time, he'll learn the way of the business. For now, he'll be free to be a child.

“She wins if she wants it bad enough,” he says.

I nudge the door open just enough to see inside. Nikolai kneels on the rug in front of the hearth where a small fire still crackles, toy horses lined up in a messy parade. He’s got two separated from the rest—a black stallion and a smaller chestnut with one leg chipped from overuse. He moves them toward each other with a dramatic pause between thrusts, and the clacking of plastic on plastic makes Anya roll over in bed.

"This one cheats," he mutters, nudging the black horse to block the other. "But she still tries."

The maid sits nearby, folding towels with half her attention on the boy. She hums softly to herself as she stacks the linens neatly, pausing every so often to answer one of Nikolai’s questions. Anya yawns and stretches, then props herself up on one elbow, watching her son play with the trace of a smile tugging at her lips. She looks tired, but settled, cocooned in the warmth of the room and the moment.

Nikolai glances up and laughs, holding one of the toy horses to his chest. "This one’s brave. Even when she knows she’ll lose."

Anya leans down and brushes his hair back gently. "That’s called courage,solnyshko. You keep that inside you."

He nods, focused on lining the horses back up. She doesn’t say anything else, but her hand stays on his shoulder. Just a light touch, as if to remind herself he’s still hers.

I watch from the door with a hint of jealousy in my chest. There’s something in the way she looks at him that silences the noise in my head for a moment. Something unguarded, and it cuts deep—makes me want her to look at me like that. But I pull back before she notices me and step away from the door. The hall swallows my footsteps as I leave them to their moment.

---