Page 13 of BRATVA'S Avenging Bride
Strength. Choice. Freedom wrapped in rage.
"I need you to trust me," I say quietly.
"I do trust you. That's the problem." He stands. "Just… don't let this blow up in our faces. The succession is fragile enough without you falling for some—"
"Careful." My voice drops to ice. "Choose your next words very carefully."
He closes his mouth. Nods once. "I'll handle the Pakhan. Buy you some time. But Matvey?" He pauses at the door. "You'd better be right about her."
"I am."
He leaves, and I'm alone again with the rising sun and the knowledge that I just drew a line in the sand for a woman who'd probably slit my throat if I gave her a sharp enough knife.
But I know it would be worth it.
I check my watch. Six AM. She'll be awake soon if she even slept at all.
I head to the kitchen and start making coffee. Black, strong, the way my mother used to make it before the cancer took her. Before my father remarried a woman young enough to be his daughter and cold enough to make winter feel warm.
The penthouse is quiet except for the hiss of the espresso machine. I pull out eggs, bread, butter. My hands move on autopilot, cracking shells, heating the pan.
Emil would laugh if he saw me. The heir apparent making breakfast like some kind of housewife.
But Katherine needs to eat. Needs to rebuild the strength she burned getting out of that building. And I need to prove I'm not what she thinks I am.
Or maybe prove I'm exactly what she thinks, just pointed in her direction instead of against her.
The door to her room opens. I hear it, the soft click, the hesitant footsteps.
She appears in the kitchen doorway like a ghost. Still wearing the silk slip, her hair a wild tangle around her face. No makeup. No armor. Just exhaustion and wariness and something that might be hunger.
"You cook," she says.
"Enough to survive." I gesture to the counter. "Sit. Coffee?"
She eyes me like I might've poisoned it. Then sits. "Black."
Smart and efficient. I like that.
I pour two cups, slide one across to her. Our fingers don't touch, but I feel the heat anyway.
She drinks, and something in her shoulders relaxes. Just slightly.
"Did you sleep?" I ask.
"No."
"Neither did I."
"Guilt keeping you up?"
I crack another egg into the pan. "Anticipation."
"Of what?"
"Of whether you'd still be here in the morning. Or if I'd wake up to another fire."
Her mouth almost curves. "I told you. I don't have accelerant."
