Page 42 of The Bratva King's Claimed Bride

I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life. I remember in Russia, when I first tried to take a wife, many women fought for my attention. They wanted my money and my power.

That’s all.

Arina didn’t ask for any of it.

I didn’t care about the women in Russia. I’d fuck them for a couple of weeks, and when they got too big for their boots, I’d toss them out. I didn’t have time for arrogant bitches.

I guess I’ve always really wanted a connection—something my parents shared.

Marie comes to us. “The bath is drawn.” She gives a little nod and leaves.

“Do you want me to wait here while you bathe?” I ask quietly. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll take care of you.”

She slowly disentangles herself from my arms and stands up. “Come in five minutes.”

She leaves, and I watch her. She’s in shock; that much I can tell. Right now, she needs me to care for her and look after her. She needs a soft hand that won’t hurt her. I can’t believe that fucker tried to take advantage of her.

I should have him killed to send a clear message about people touching my wife.

I wait five minutes, and then I get up. I lay my suit jacket across the back of the sofa and undo my tie, leaving it on the seat. I roll my sleeves up and walk into the bathroom.

Arina is sitting in the hot bubble bath, hugging her knees.

I kneel beside her and stroke her back gently.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “But I don’t have the words.”

“Take your time,” I soothe her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“He was going to rape me. If Matvey hadn’t come, he would have raped me. I wasn’t strong enough to get away from him,” she sniffs, and I see tears forming in her eyes.

I smooth down her hair. I pick up the sponge and lather it with soap before I wash her back. It’s all I can think to do in a situation like this.

“He grabbed my hair. It hurt so bad,” her voice cracks slightly. “When he tried to pull my head into his crotch, I head-butted him.” She sniffs again.

“Good girl,” I murmur. “He deserved it.”

“I scratched his face,” she says.

“You should have taken his eyes out,” I comment.

I pick up a jug and fill it with water. “Tilt your head back.”

She closes her eyes and listens to me. I wet her hair and got the shampoo. I wash her hair gently as we sit in silence. I don’t want to break the softness of this moment.

I rinse her hair gently. My hands feel too big to be doing such a delicate task.

I condition her hair and leave it in, sitting beside her while she washes the rest of her body.

“This isn’t your fault,” I finally say. “None of this is your fault. He took advantage of a situation when you were vulnerable.”

“How do you know it’s not my fault? He said I asked for it the way I dressed.” She bursts into tears, and I quickly get onto my knees and rub her back.

“I’ve seen how you dress, and it’s professional,” I say earnestly. “Nothing you wore was provocative.”

She rubs her nose and sniffs, shivering slightly.

---