Page 5 of A Baby for the BRATVA Boss
I swallow, hard. “Thank you,” I somehow manage through the lump that’s formed in my throat.
“Yes, Greta, thank you,” Yury says, and for the first time, I hear something that almost sounds like warmth in his voice. Real, not performed.
They vanish as quickly as they came, the door clicking shut behind them. The scent of pine lingers. I stand frozen, heart thudding.
“Wife?” I whisper.
“It keeps things simple,” he says. “They don’t ask questions up here, and I don’t give answers. Greta is the housekeeper, and she was with her daughter, Noelle. Greta runs a tight and efficient ship, exactly as I like it.”
He moves to the fireplace and crouches, adding a log with one steady hand. Sparks rise, catching the silver in his hair. When he stands, his gaze finds mine again, steady and unreadable. “You can take the guest room at the top of the stairs. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”
“Am I allowed to leave the room?”
His mouth curves, just barely. “You’re allowed to explore. The locks are for keeping danger out, not you in.”
I don’t know whether to believe him.
When he passes close, the scent of something expensive clings to the air, and for a moment I forget the reason I’m here. My body betrays me first, warmth rising beneath my skin like it recognises him before I do. It’s not desire, I tell myself. It’s adrenaline. It’s fear. But when he looks at me, really looks, the lie burns away too quickly to hold onto.
It shouldn’t matter that he’s handsome, but it does. The danger only makes it worse. The quiet way he moves, the steady rhythm of his voice, it all feels designed to undo me one heartbeat at a time. And as he walks away, I realize something; the house doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels alive. Like the walls breathe and listen, like the warmth wants me to stay.
I wander later, when he disappears into an office somewhere down the hall. The corridors smell of pine and polish, the windows are framed in frost.
The kitchen hums with quiet machines. There’s cinnamon somewhere, maybe from some recent baking, maybe from the candles flickering by the sink. I touch the edge of the counter and realize I’m smiling. It feels wrong, this tiny bloom of comfort inside a stranger’s house. Inside the Bratva Pakhan’s mountain fortress.
Outside the window, snow drifts past the glass, the valley below glittering with lights. Bells ring again, faint and distant, carried up through the dark. For a moment, it sounds like peace.
Maybe it’s the fire. Maybe it’s exhaustion. But when I finally curl beneath the heavy blankets of the guest bed, the warmth seeps into me too deeply to fight. My body forgets the fear long before my mind does.
Somewhere below, I hear him moving, steady footsteps across wooden floors. And against all reason, all logic, my last thought before sleep is that his house doesn’t feel like a prison. It feels like the beginning of something dangerous. Something I might not want to escape.
Yury
Morning makes liars of men like me.
I told myself she was payment, that I’d take her to prove a point and nothing more. Yet the light comes in cold over the valley, hits her where she stands by the window in one of my sweaters, and I’m already reworking every plan I’ve made.
She finds the garlands without asking. A pine length, ribbon threaded through, a handful of gold bells that chime when she moves. She takes her time with the mantel, mouth soft in concentration, sleeves pushed to her forearms. Every reach shows a flash of skin. I’m not a man easily distracted; but she distracts me entirely.
She feels me watching. “Is this off-limits?”
“No.” My voice is rougher than it should be. “Keep going.”
She does. Quiet, careful, and then not careful at all when she smiles. The room changes with it. Less plain. More alive.
By noon, the sky is lifting.
“Come with me,” I say.
She doesn’t ask where to, and I like the way it makes my blood rush through my head.
We take the lower path. Snow kicks up at our boots, the trees throwing blue shadows across the trail. She keeps pace, head tipped to listen to the bells that drift from the square.
The market is the same as every winter, stalls under striped canvas, smoke from braziers, chestnuts and sugared almonds, glass ornaments that catch the pale sun. People nod when they see me. They step out of the way. They look at her and don’t know what to do with their faces.
At the clothing stall, the old woman studies Sophia the way grandmothers do when they’ve already decided to care. “Your wife needs a proper coat.” She’s already reaching for red.
Sophia opens her mouth to correct her.
