Page 133 of Bratva Bidder
“How?” I ask, frowning.
“I talked to Alexei.”
My blood stills. “You did what?”
“He was here,” she says, standing now, voice even. “We talked. He promised to pull the men back.”
I stare at her, trying to process that. “You trust him?”
“I didn’t say I trust him,” she replies. “But I believe him. There’s a difference.”
“Wow,” Lev mutters, letting out a low whistle. “Well, she’s right. I’ve had my own people watching the hospital since that little visit from your father. There’s no sign of Dmitry’s men anymore. Not a car. Not a shadow. They’re gone.”
I exhale slowly, jaw tight. It’s not relief I feel—it’s the unsettling sense of control slipping through my fingers. First Alexei waltzes in, now Nadya’s negotiating peace treaties behind my back. I should be angry. I am angry. But I can’t deny what matters—Nikolai needs that consultation.
I glance at my son, small and fragile against the mountain of wires and linens.
“We go. We don’t waste the chance,” I say, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
Nadya nods, already grabbing her coat.
The city moves past us in a blur of washed-out buildings and blinking traffic lights. Nadya drives like she does everything else—with focus, with fire. One hand on the wheel, the other ready to shift, her mouth set in that stubborn line I’ve come to recognize as both beautiful and dangerous.
I haven’t said a word since we left the hospital.
She glances sideways at me. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s new.”
I smirk faintly, but she doesn’t let it drop.
“You don’t like that I spoke to Alexei.”
It’s not a question. She says it flat and straight, eyes forward, tone unreadable.
I turn to her, studying her profile—the elegant curve of her neck, the tension in her shoulders. “Actually,” I say, watching her shift gears, “that’s not entirely true.”
Her hand slips off the stick and returns to the wheel, but I cover it for a moment before she moves. Just long enough for her to feel it.
“I’m pissed, for sure. But I also trust you,” I say quietly.
She exhales, like I’ve let air into a room she didn’t know she was holding her breath in. I feel it—the shift in the atmosphere, like a door creaking open.
“You trust me,” she repeats, like she’s weighing the words against her own instincts.
“More than I trust myself most days,” I admit. “And that scares the shit out of me.”
She exhales through her nose, but I catch the way her grip loosens on the wheel. She’s relieved. I hadn’t realized she needed to hear that.
“Still,” I add, “if he so much as breathes wrong near you or the kids, I’ll gut him.”
“There’s the man I married,” she mutters under her breath.
I chuckle low in my throat. “You married a lunatic, sweetheart.”
She flicks her eyes to the side, amused. “Good. I wouldn’t survive the boring kind.”
