Page 41 of The Bratva's Forced Bride

Slowly but surely, every moment of my conscious state started to be ruled by thoughts about her. Thoughts about us. I didn’t even notice it at first.

Despite her reservations and reluctance, these last weeks, if anything, have proved what a good fit we are for each other, like two puzzle pieces slotting neatly into place.

I don’t regret the decision I made, and I know, with time, she will come to appreciate it as well. I just need to keep winning her over. Although I’ve never been the romantic type or doted on women, I’m sure I can think of things to make her start to appreciate me.

I know, I’ll make her dinner. No one can say no to a home-cooked meal. Cooking is something I learned early—we all did—from our mother. She said it was important. I’ll light some candles, put some music on. Shit, I don’t think I have candles.

Right, I get up and grab my car keys. I pass Renat. “I’m just going to the store,” I say. “What do you think would be a nice dish to serve Ash?”

Renat doesn’t even blink. “Goulash on a bed of Parmesan mash. The recipe should be easy to find.” He keeps looking forward. Forever the bodyguard.

I search for a recipe online, and once I have a list of ingredients, I get in my car and drive to the nearby shopping center. The recipe seems easy enough and delicious.

I usually let Claire do the shopping, but this is going to be a special meal just for us. I don’t choose goulash meat. Instead, I get a large piece of aged beef fillet. I also select the fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano, not the already-grated cheat version of parmesan cheese. I grab everything I need before heading to a more feminine store, where I find some coconut-scented candles. They remind me of her. I pick out five. The lady at the counter gives me a strange look, but I bless her with one of my charming smiles, and when she sees the name on my credit card, she hurriedly finishes my order.

I’m back home in no time, and I tell Claire she can finish for the day. The moment she leaves, I hurry to the kitchen to unpack my shopping and cook dinner. I follow every step of the recipe: cut the beef fillet into cubes, brow the meat, add spices and herbs to cook in, and make the gravy. I hate peeling the potatoes, but it’s part of the job.

The kitchen fills with the smells of home. My mother made an excellent goulash, and this reminds me of her. I hear the front door open and close.

“Asher?” I wipe my hands on the apron I borrowed from Claire’s kitchen wardrobe.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t feel like talking,” she calls from the hall.

“Asher, come here,” I say sternly.

I hear her sigh, and she walks into the kitchen. She looks around, looking rather shocked. “What’s this?”

“I’m cooking you a good meal tonight, homemade with my special touch.” I smile at her, quickly hiding the knife I’m still holding behind my back.

“Why?” she asks, and it deflates me a little.

“Because I wanted to do something nice for you. Go on and sit in the dining room. I’m nearly finished. We’ll eat together, and we can talk while we eat.” I look at her, and I know she knows I mean business.

“Can I go get changed?” she asks.

“Sure. Be back in ten minutes. The food will be ready by then, and I don’t want it getting cold.” I turn back to my cooking.

Asher leaves, and I wonder about her behavior. When did it start? Have I done something to offend her? Did I hurt her in some way? I wish she would open up and tell me, but she seems determined to keep it to herself.

I set the table with the expensive china reserved for special occasions, light the candles, and then hurry back to the kitchen to finish the mashed potatoes. The goulash is ready to be served.

With a last sample taste, I spoon everything into serving dishes, carry them to the dining room, and place them on pot holders in the middle of the table. I throw off the apron and make sure the kitchen is tidy and everything is off before I sit and wait.

I’m about to call for her when she walks in. She’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and an oversized jumper, and I couldn’t love her more right now.

She looks so comfy and at home; that is all I want.

“It smells good.” She sniffs the bowls. “It’s a stew with mash. That’s my favorite thing in the world.” Her eyes light up.

“I’m glad you approve of my choice. Maybe one day I’ll teach you how to make it, and you can make it for us.” She smiles at me and dishes food onto her plate. I follow her, and then we sit in a comfortable silence and eat our food.

“I have noticed something has been up with you since we went out with Penny and Kervyn. Is it something I did?” I ask quietly.

“See, I didn’t want to have this conversation because I’m just feeling moody. It has nothing to do with you.” She sighs and briefly closes her eyes. “Not everything in my life is about you, Danil.”

“That’s a pity,” I say, somewhat hurt. “But I’m sorry you’re moody. If I can do anything to help, you only need to ask me.”

“There’s nothing except I’d like to be left alone. Just alone for a while. I’m used to being independent and having my own space, and now you’re just everywhere, and then there’s people everywhere at work, and I don’t get a chance to be alone.” She’s rattling it off like a list.

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