Page 109 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

She’s hurt. She’s probably about to cry. She’s probably going to withdraw from me for a long time.

But it’s necessary to get her back under control.

I should have never allowed myself to climb out of the perfect character. The skin of the cold pakhan slips back on like a robe I’ve worn hundreds of times. When I feel the weighty familiarity of the cloth, I raise my chin and turn to look at my wife with emotionless eyes.

Love can come later.

Right now, I don’t need it.

Even as I nurse my character back to life, I feel my heart breaking. Part of me is appalled at how quick I am to snap at her like a disappointed puppeteer. Another part of me is disgusted that I didn’t yank on her strings sooner. A little goes a long way.

That counts for freedom, too.

I shake my head. “You dream the impossible.”

She steels her features. But it doesn’t stop her eyes from welling with tears.

I sigh. “I should have trusted my gut from the beginning.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

More hurt lashes her expression. Her shoulders dip slightly as she rests her hands on the edge of the desk, using it to keep her from tumbling to the ground. “So, I was right.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“The Bratva will always come first for you,” she whispers. “Not me.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s the kind of phrase that could shatter a woman to pieces—and annihilate any trust between us. It’s something I don’t dare say. But I’m getting closer by the second.

It all depends on how far I want to push her.

When did it not?

I can practically taste the poison in those syllables and feel the way it would break her. If she thought my threat of chaining her to a bed was bad, then this would certainly kill her.

And any love she has left for me.

As I part my lips to speak, I hear a crackle on the other side of the door.

“…in position…over…”

My vision sharpens.

That sounds like a radio.

Liya looks furious as she pushes off the desk and marches toward me. Two steps is all it takes. She’s all pride and venomous rage as she raises her hand and opens her mouth to speak. I clap my hand over her mouth and pivot slightly to get her behind me. My left shoulder is to the door, but it’s still within my view.

I shake my head when she looks at me and then nod toward the door. When her eyes slide in that direction, the sound of the radio crackles a little louder.

She stiffens.

Slowly, I release her mouth and reach for the pistol strapped to my leg. I check the chamber. Three bullets. The ammunition that was in my pocket got lost on the FDR. My other gun went down with Kiril.

Fuck.

I leave Liya in the middle of the room and cautiously approach the door. A few shuffling sounds erupt. I press my ear to the wood and listen intently, noticing the higher-pitched feminine voice just a few feet to the left.

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