Page 88 of Owned By The Bratva King

I step back and take in the sight of him. His navy blue silk shirt is dusty with flour, and splodges of dough are on his pants. He looks down and chuckles.

“Ah. I don’t own an apron, believe it or not.”

I wrap my arms around his waist. “It’ll wash out. Maybe. The shirt wasn’t too expensive, was it?”

He kisses my nose. “Too expensive for me? Hell, no. I got a closet full of them.”

“I saw. Do we live here now?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Nah. It’s a house, not a home. We can for the time being if you like, but I like your apartment because it’s yours. Let’s get a new place. You can choose, and I’ll pay for whatever decor you pick out.”

I peer into the baking dish. “Okay. This kitchen isn’t big enough anyway, but these rolls definitely are.”

He shrugs. “I like them that way. More to enjoy. Soft, squishy, warm…”

I wriggle out of his grasp, laughing. “You’re talking about the buns, right?”

“Sure am.”

He slaps my ass, then catches my wrist, pulling me to him. I can’t help but melt into his embrace as he tilts my chin, his silver eyes searching my face.

“Seriously, rusalka. Are you alright? You slept for so long; I was starting to worry.”

“I had to,” I say. “I was tired, and everything ached. I feel a lot better now.”

Roman’s expression softens, and he lowers his lips to mine. His passion for me burns as brightly as ever, but his kiss is tender, almost reverent.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” he murmurs into my mouth. “God knows I don’t deserve a reprieve, but I feel lighter, like a heavy weight has been lifted.”

“It’s not just getting me back.” I wind my hands through his hair, my nails raking his scalp, and he groans. “You didn’t bring destruction upon your sister and her husband. It was Silvio, all of it. You did protect Bianca, just as you protected me. That’s a truth you can build on.”

“I should have been more vigilant?—”

“I lied about Julian, and you thought Silvio was dead.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault. And I couldn’t have done what I did if you hadn’t made me believe in myself. I don’t feel like a victim, Roman.” I stroke his jawline with my fingertip. “I’m a survivor. We both are.”

His lips are soft, moving against mine with a tenderness that moves me deep inside. To think I doubted he loved me—it seems ludicrous now.

He never once lied to me, but I lied to myself time and time again, never daring to believe that something so dysfunctional could blossom into true intimacy.

“Hey, beautiful,” Roman murmurs in my ear. “Would it be forward of me to worship every luscious inch of you in the privacy of my room?”

“Since when did you care about being forward?” I laugh. “But I’m disgusting, Roman. I need to wash.”

“You’re no less gorgeous than you were on our wedding day.” He kisses the back of my hand with a flourish, and I giggle. “But I want you to be comfortable. Let’s get clean so we can get dirty again.”

I’m shocked to see the enormous copper bathtub in Roman’s bathroom. I haven’t soaked in a bath since childhood; showers are valuable space savers in New York’s brutal apartment scene.

Roman runs it hot and adds a fragrant oil, then surprises me by stripping and climbing in.

“Come join me,” he says. “This bath is great but uncomfortable when you need to lie back and relax. Let me be your pillow.”

I take off my clothes, but when I glance at Roman, he’s frowning. The familiar surge of self-consciousness doesn’t come because I know he loves my body, so what does he see?

“You’re marked.” He points at the livid red rings around my ankles. “Your wrists, too. Jesus Christ, how did I not notice before?”

Clouds gather in his eyes. “I wanna take care of you, Quinn, but I can’t lie; seeing you injured, even slightly, makes me sick.”

“I’m not hurt,” I say, getting into the water and settling back in his arms, my head on his chest. “Not really.”

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