Page 121 of Bratva's Vow
“What was he like then?”
“Loud. He swore like a sailor and smoked like one too. But he cooked every Sunday like a religion. Made this horrible fish stew I choked down out of guilt. And he used to sing when he thought no one was home. Off-key. Always in French.”
I laughed softly. “A Russian singing in French?”
“The love of his life was French.”
“Was?”
“He was killed in Moscow. A hate crime. It’s why Vova fled and came here.”
“And you ended up doing the same thing?”
“Yes, my father was a homophobic piece of shit. Vova was like a brother to me. Even when it took me a while to find a job, he didn’t make me feel unwelcome in his house.”
“You’re going to miss him.” I kissed his temple. “Maxim?”
“Hmm?”
“I really hope you find whoever did this.”
Maxim didn’t reply, but he tightened his fingers around mine. And it was enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MAXIM
Wren’s soft curses floated out from the bed while I stood in front of the mirror, looping the knot in my tie for the second time. The first attempt had come out uneven, my fingers too stiff, too distracted. The ache in my chest hadn’t eased in days. Vova’s cremation had been a couple of days ago, and I had to pick up his ashes today for the upcoming memorial service.
Wren’s mutterings grounded me and made it easier to breathe.
He sat up in bed, laptop perched on his knees, his curls a wild halo around his face.
“This professor’s a sadist. Who gives assignments in the first week? Like, damn. Let us blink first.”
I smoothed down the front of my shirt. “Or—and hear me out—you could try doing your assignments when you first get them instead of waiting until the day it is due. You’re going to be late for class.”
He narrowed his eyes, pouting like I’d kicked his puppy. “Are you supporting me or siding with my professor?”
I bit back a smirk. “You know you have my full support, kroshka.”
He tossed the blanket off and stretched. My breath hitched. Christ. His body was lean, smooth, golden skin, every inch of him a walking, breathing sin. He arched his back, ribs lifting, arms stretched high over his head like he had no idea what it did to me. His T-shirt rode up, just enough for a glimpse of the lacy edge of his underwear… and the glint of that damn belly button piercing.
That piercing. It gave him away.
On the surface, Wren looked like any other good boy—sweet, polite, easy to overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But that bit of sparkle right at his navel? That was the tell. The warning. The invitation. Proof there was more to him than clean lines and soft smiles. He wasn’t vanilla. Not even close.
I knew what he was. A filthy, eager little slut. And fuck, I loved that about him.
How was he real? How had I gotten this soft, warm thing to curl around my darkness without recoiling? He knew a lot more now about my business than when we first fell in love, but he was coming to terms with it. He no longer looked panicked after one of my long phone calls in Russian. More and more, he trusted me to keep us safe.
But I couldn’t even keep Vova safe.
Wren padded across the room barefoot, still stretching, and came up to me, reaching for my tie like it was an old routine.
“Let me fix this.” He touched my throat. “You’re a bit distracted today, and your tie’s all crooked.”
“A lot on my mind.” My voice came out rougher than Iliked. His fingers lingered a second longer, and I didn’t stop him.
