Page 47 of Bratva Bride
“Fine,” I mutter.
I turn and walk down the hallway, past Mila’s room, into ours. The door clicks behind me. I don’t bother turning on the light. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and drag a hand through my hair.
I hear the door creak open behind me ten minutes later. I don’t look up. The bedroom is still cloaked in darkness, only the city lights bleeding faintly through the curtains.
Her footsteps are soft. Hesitant.
“Is he still out there?” I ask, my voice low, rough from the silence.
“Yes,” she says.
Her silhouette leans against the doorframe, or maybe she’s just standing there. I can’t see her face. Just the shape of her.
I breathe in slowly, trying to tamp down the frustration rising again. “Do you really want him around Mila?”
There’s a pause. A real one. Not the kind where she’s trying to avoid the question—this is different. She’s thinking about it.
“I’m not sure how to answer that yet,” she says finally.
That burns more than if she’d just said yes. Or no. At least that would’ve given me something to work with.
I nod to myself. Not to her. “Okay.”
Another pause. I can feel her watching me, but I don’t move. I don’t ask anything else.
If she wants to talk, she will.
But she doesn’t.
Morning comes slow and gray. I barely sleep. The sun slants through the living room as Mila wanders in, still in her pajamas, her hair wild, a blue crayon clutched in one fist.
She pauses at the kitchen table, eyes settling on Pyotr as he sits sipping coffee, quiet as a ghost.
She studies him with the blunt curiosity only children have. “You look just like Mommy,” she says. “Have I seen you before?”
Pyotr’s mouth twitches into something almost like a smile. “Maybe. I have one of those faces.”
Mila tilts her head, not satisfied, but lets it go, hopping up onto her chair. Nadya puts toast in front of her, moving carefully, shoulders tense. She doesn’t look at me, and I don’t look at her, not for long.
After breakfast, I stand up and motion for Nadya to follow me. She hesitates, glancing at Mila, at her father, then finally gets up.I lead her down the hall, past Mila’s room, around the corner into the little alcove by the utility closet.
When she tries to sidestep me, I press her back against the wall, hands braced on either side of her head. Not rough—just enough to remind her she isn’t getting away that easy.
She draws in a breath, but I see the flicker of challenge in her eyes. I can smell her shampoo, something faint and floral
“He better be gone when I get back,” I say, my voice low.
She arches a brow, stubborn. “Get back from where?”
“You tell me your truth first, and I’ll give you mine.”
She lifts her chin, her mouth a stubborn line, her pulse fluttering at her throat. We’re so close I can feel the tension strumming between us, raw and electric.
I want to kiss her until she gives in. I want to shake her until she finally lets me in.
But all I do is stare, daring her to say something—anything—that will crack this wall between us.
She looks away, just for a second, then back at me. “It doesn’t work like that,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
