Page 19 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

“Right to our face,” Roman says, as Viktor says, “ouch, okay.”

I realize I’m laughing, my hand on the counter, leaning forward, feeling more relaxed than I have in a long time. Since Olive and I met in our freshman year of college, her family has tried to welcome me into the fold, but there were just so many things that made us different—it was hard for me to feel at home.

But I feel comfortable here, watching the siblings joke and make fun of each other. Less lonely.

My father died one week before my high school graduation. With my mother already done and no aunts, uncles, or siblings, I took myself to the ceremony and walked alone, with only my loose group of friends to celebrate with.

When we all went our separate ways after graduation, I thought I would get my found family in college, a group of friends I could truly call my own. Then, my freshman roommate was a complete nightmare.

She would leave milk and yogurt on her desk for days, throw her trash and laundry all over the room, and frequently bring over all sorts of men to have sex with. It seemed she didn’t really have a type.

After Christmas break, I debated not returning at all, but I forced myself to see it through.

When I walked into the room, it was tidy. There was a new pink bedspread on the bunk across from mine.

“Hello?” I’d said, and someone bumped their head while hanging string lights under their bed.

“Shit,” they said, “sorry—I’m Olive.”

Despite how well Olive and I get along, we still have our issues. I just never fit in with her rich, spoiled, girly friends. The ones who have never even had to put air in a tire or go grocery shopping for themselves. Talking to them makes me feel like my head is rapidly filling with air.

“Here, try this,” Anton says, bringing a spoon to my lips. I glance at him warily, then try a little sip of the stuff.

“What is it?’ I ask, after trying it. It’s sweet, salty, and complex all at once.

“Borscht,” Anton says, turning back to the stove. “I’m working our way through our grandma’s cookbook.”

“Yeah, and I have no idea why,” Roman mutters. “Just make burgers like a regular person.”

“This is a way for us to—”

“—connect with our heritage!” the rest of them finish, breaking into giggles when Anton puts a hand on his hip, looking pretty funny with the spoon and the apron.

“What’s your heritage, Fiona?” Anya asks, but I don’t have a chance to answer that because the front door of the house flies open, and someone comes thundering in, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the hall.

“Viktor!” Boris says as he rounds the corner. “If you—”

He stops short when he sees us all in the kitchen together.

“Oh,” he says, his eyes settling on me. “I thought you had—”

“You thought I escaped?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the kiss the other night, and when I look at him now, I can’t stop imagining it. The way it felt to slip into his lap, how he’d breathed against me, under me—

“Let’s go,” Boris says, stepping forward and reaching out like he might put a hand on my arm. Anya reaches out before I can do anything, stopping her brother in his tracks.

“Fiona is staying for dinner,” she says. “You’re welcome to join us if you want, but she’s staying.”

Boris stands there for a moment, looking around the room like he’s waiting for someone to come to his rescue. When his siblings all look back at him blankly—with the exception of Anton, who’s busy stirring the borscht, Boris lets out a sigh.

“Fine,” he says, “but if it’s to be a proper family meal, we’re eating in the dining room.”

Chapter 9 - Boris

Fiona and I are in the dining room, carefully setting out the placemats. Despite having a hundred things to do—and more than one angry person calling me—I’m here with her, getting ready for a cozy family dinner.

This home’s dining room, with its rich red and dark brown tones, has always been one of my favorites. It holds a lot of memories for me and makes me think of what it was like as a kid, running around here with my siblings before the bigger house was built next door.

“Anya is nice,” she says, darting her eyes up to meet mine before focusing on the table again. I can’t stop looking at her—at the sundress and how it drapes over her shoulders, cupping her breasts, swishing around her knees. The slope of her neck. The curve of her calf. Every part of her looks like something I want to eat, and it’s part of the reason I haven’t been able to get a damn thing done today. I can’t stop thinking about her body and how it felt on mine.

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