Page 81 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

Pavel slides his hand over my cheek and wraps his arms around my shoulders. He tugs me into his lap and nestles his nose into my neck, the softness of his lips coasting my shoulder causing the strongest of responses.

My heart quivers. Having him hold me like this solidifies my feelings from the garden.

What I feel for him is real.

What I host in my heart is true.

And that’s the greatest love I’ve ever felt in my life.

A sob threatens to burst from my lips. Could we really be so close to the finish line? All those long, sleepless nights, the turmoil, and the uncertainty amplified for so long have me on edge. But now that I can see the ribbons guarding the end of the race, I’m excited.

It’s almost over.

“We’ll do what’s necessary,Lisichka,” he whispers. The sound of those words drifting into my ear gives me goose bumps. “You have my support.”

I go limp in his arms. I’m straddling his lap with my face shoved into his neck, trying to level my breathing as best I can. Beneath us, the chair creaks slightly but then goes back to being quiet, the steady tick of the clock in the office the only other sound indicating our location.

It’s so comforting that I nearly fall asleep.

The whole time, Pavel runs his fingers up and down my spine. He traces each divot and rises over every arch, taking his time to study the way my back is shaped. Its current curve provides him ample space to explore.

I try not to think about what I just agreed to.

One nod is all that separates life and death.

Is it really that easy to make such decisions?I gulp.Or am I just getting good at this?

I close my eyes and try to focus on his heart. The way his chest expands and deflates with every breath. The way his fingertips skate over the bare skin on the back of my neck. The way he plays with my hair.

This is more affectionate than he’s ever been. Is he thinking the same thing?

Despite my curiosity, I can’t seem to vocalize it. It’s hard enough to handle what comes with this decision. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking.

He’s probably just thinking it’s another Tuesday in the Bratva.

I rest my hand over his chest, focusing on his heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It’s a steady rhythm—reliable and predictable. Why can’t our lives be the same?

Such wishful thinking never provided much of a solution. We’ve been in this position before. We’ve talked about leaving.

And he’s made it relatively clear that he can’t.

Yet.

My fingers trace the memory of his tattoos through the fabric of his dress shirt. The top button is undone, revealing part of the ink resting underneath the fabric. A few simple movements could have this shirt off and his skin exposed to me, fresh for the taking.

But I’m tired. This decision is by far the heaviest of them all.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For supporting me.”

“It’s nothing.”

I raise my eyebrows. “If it’s nothing, then you wouldn’t do it.”

A chuckle rumbles his chest. The resonance feels good against my palm. “I stand corrected,rodnaya.”

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