Page 14 of Bribed & Bred By the BRATVA
When we leave, my hands shake. Not from fear, but from something harder to name. Gratitude. Shame. And underneath it, a dangerous warmth that grows every time Aleksei makes good on his promises.
In the car, I finally speak. “He looks even better today. Like he is making real progress.”
“Yes,” Aleksei says simply. “And he will continue to get better. When the doctors say he can be discharged, he will live in the pool house and we will move to the main house.”
The words should grate. They should remind me of the bargain I made. But instead, my chest swells with something that feels perilously close to faith.
Aleksei
I’ve dealt with weapons shipments, border bribes, men who’d slit throats for half a pay check. None of it has ever made me feel as stupid as standing in my own kitchen asking a cook to teach me how to cook eggs.
“You want me to teach you?” he says, eyebrows climbing like he misheard.
“Yes,” I bite out. Then softer, because I know how ridiculous it sounds, “Something simple. Something she’ll like.”
His eyes flicker, a gleam of amusement he’s too smart to show outright. “The girl?”
“My wife,” I correct. I don’t care that the papers are barely dry. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
He wipes his hands on his apron, still staring like I’ve sprouted horns. “Well. You’re not ready for soufflés. So Spanish omelette it is. Potatoes, eggs, onion. Even you can’t ruin that.”
I glare, but he doesn’t shrink. Old staff rarely do. They’ve seen me bleed and they’ve seen me kill, but not one of them has seen me peel potatoes. Until now.
He shows me the motions. Thin slices. Slow cooking in oil until they’re soft. “Not too fast,” he says when I nearly take the top of my thumb off. “You’re feeding a wife, not killing an enemy.”
“Same grip,” I mutter. “Different angle.”
“Different everything,” he grumbles back. But I do as he says. I’m not above learning when it matters.
The kitchen fills with the smell of onion, warm and sweet. My stomach clenches, not with hunger but with anticipation. I turn the omelette carefully, biting back a curse when the edge sticks. The cook makes a noise in his throat but doesn’t step in. He knows better. This is mine to get right.
Finally, it slides out golden onto the plate. Whole. Not broken. Not ruined. My chest tightens with a pride I should be ashamed of.
“Edible,” the cook declares. Then he mutters in Russian about miracles and leaves me to it.
Good. I don’t want witnesses.
I set the table myself. No silver domes. No array of staff. Just the plate, some bread, coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I want her to know this didn’t pass through six pairs of hands. It came from mine.
I go to the bedroom and push the door open. She’s curled on the bed, one of the books I left stacked by the chair open in her hands. She looks up, startled. The line between her brows softens when she sees me, and something violent stirs in my chest at the sight of it easing.
“Come,” I say.
She hesitates, then sets the book aside and follows. Bare feet whispering against the floor, hem brushing her ankles. She’s still too thin, too tired, but she moves with a grace that makes me want to tear the world apart to keep it.
When she sees the table, she stops.
“You cooked?”
“Yes.” I round the table and pull out a chair for her, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this must look. “Spanish omelette. The cook says it’s edible.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “You made this for me?”
“Yes.” I nod once, almost curt. “Sit. Eat.”
She lowers into the chair, lifts a fork, and takes a bite. Her eyes widen, her lips part, and a small sound escapes her throat. It’s not quite a moan but close enough to make my cock twitch.
“It’s good,” she says.
