Page 27 of The Bratva's Innocent Sold Bride
One morning, before I started my routine to keep that massive house from being taken over by dust, I caught a rare glimpse of Masha having her coffee out by the pool. It was only seven AM, but she was usually either gone by that time or didn’t come home at all. Grabbing a croissant, courtesy of my grocery order the day before, I hurried out to speak with her.
As far as she knew, there was no trouble in paradise, and the only way I could get information was to pretend I already knew anything. I sorely wanted to know what Mat was up to, not coming home until the wee hours. And what she was up to, for that matter, since she was working for him.
After our brief and awkward greeting, I waited for her to finish giving Artem the pats he was slavering for, and then decided to go with a concerned wife act.
“Is there anything I need to be worried about?”
Masha whipped around from nuzzling the dog and shook her head. “Oh no, not at all. In fact, we’re closing in on him, so Mat might not have to spend so many nights away.”
I made noises like that was a good thing, all while wondering who in the heck they were closing in on. She must have said something to Mat because he turned up at dinner time that evening, and of course, I didn’t have anything ready for him. I was going to make myself a frozen pizza, but he looked at the box as if it were pure poison.
“I expect a proper meal, CJ,” he said. “Don’t worry about tonight since you weren’t aware I’d be home. I’ll order us something nice.”
Like he was doing me a big favor. To be stubborn, I put the pizza in the oven anyway, but he only gave me a disappointed look, as if I were being childish. Which maybe I was, because I did kind of regret not being able to eat the delicious Asian spread that got delivered.
He made a big show out of enjoying it, and our conversation was clipped. I would have gone to eat on the patio or in my room, but the master decreed we’d have dinner together, so there we were.
“I’ll be eating dinner with you every night from now on,” he said when the torture finally ended. The message was clear. No more deliveries, no frozen pizzas.
After that, I got petty. He never ordered me to put the sexy maid costume back on, but I decided it was time to turn up the heat. Masha had announced she’d be away from the house for about a week, so I could prance around all I wanted to torment him. I even cooked that same chicken dinner that had turned out so well, and made a big show about serving it on repeat because he liked it so much the first time.
For the third night in a row, I beamed at him as I leaned across the table, just about falling out of my little outfit. “Tada,” I said, lifting the lid off the tray with a flourish. “Your favorite. Again.”
He ate in stony silence while I flitted around, making a huge show of keeping his glass full, making sure he had bread. Was he actually enjoying this? His stony silence as I got more and more over the top should have tipped me off. The next night, when I started the show all over again, he slammed his hand down on the table.
I reached for his wine glass, which tipped over, but he grabbed my hand to stop me.
“Enough,” he bellowed. “Go change your clothes while I order something different to eat.”
I didn’t dare not show my face again, and came down in a pair of jeans and a nice blouse as a pizza was being delivered. It had all my favorite toppings, just like the frozen one from a few days ago. If he was trying to be nice, his face sure didn’t show it. He glared at me as I sat down and accepted a slice.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“What?” I said, feigning innocence. “I’m doing what you ordered me to do.”
“When did I order you?” he demanded. “I said if you were bored, you could clean the house.”
I slammed my own hand down, surprising both of us. “And you dismissed the staff. How else was I supposed to take it?”
“Fair enough. They’ll return tomorrow. You can stop making a mockery of the way I was raised.”
“What?” I asked, stunned.
“You think being a loving wife and homemaker is a joke, even after I told you that was what my mother was.”
Underneath his clear anger, I sensed he was hurt. Now that he’d explained it, I could see that I was doing just that, but I hadn’t meant to undermine his mother. I wasn’t in the wrong—not totally. Some small part of me was screaming to apologize, but I kept my lips clamped tightly shut until it passed. He gave me the costume, and he refused to let me do anything except serve him.
Why did I still feel bad?
“What should I do then?” I asked quietly.
“Do what you want,” he said, rising.
“I want to get a job.”
“I’ve told you that’s impossible.” His voice was low, his eyes full of something I couldn’t read, something that looked like sadness. What did he have to feel sorrowful about? I was the prisoner who had no choices.
“Just because I want something different from what you’re used to doesn’t mean I don’t respect it.” There. That wasas close as I could get to an apology. Maybe now we could speak to each other without any further fighting.
