Page 29 of Arranged to Marry the Bratva

I pause, curiosity piqued, and squint to see better. There, in the dimming light, I spot Nikolai and Dima sneaking into the house like two mischievous teenagers. They look around themselves and walk in slower than usual, almost as though they’re trying not to get caught. My heart races as I watch them, wondering what they could possibly be up to.

Chapter 13 - Nikolai

As Dima and I silently sneak into the main house, we're startled by Anoushka catching us red-handed. Her eyes widen in shock at the sight of our bloodied faces and bruised bodies. "What the hell happened to you two?" she demands, her voice a mixture of mild anger and heart-rendering concern.

"Anoushka," I sigh, feeling the weight of exhaustion on my shoulders. "I just didn’t want Sofia and Natalia to see us like this. We saw their car in the driveway and thought it best to avoid them.”

I’m so exhausted that my voice sounds low and dull. Beside me, Dima leans against me, his arm taking support across my shoulders.

He nearly stumbles as we stand, and Anoushka gasps, rushing over to the other side, her unanswered question forgotten. She gently places an arm around Dima’s waist, giving him support. She takes control of the situation, guiding us toward the living room. She helps Dima onto the couch with surprising gentleness.

"Thank you," I mutter as she fills two glasses with water and hands me one. Dima shakes his head, probably nauseous from all the blows he took, but I accept the glass. My body aches with every move I make, but having Anoushka here is a comfort I didn't know I needed.

"Stay put. I'll go get the first aid kit," she orders, her tone firm yet caring.

As she leaves, I can't help but admire how strong and nurturing Anoushka can be, even when faced with something so unexpected and unnerving. It's clear that she's not just any woman—she's someone who can handle the darkness that comes with being part of this Bratva family.

In times of trouble, the past slights don’t matter. She saw Dima hurt, saw me bloodied, and all she chooses to focus on is getting us help.

Frankly? It’s incredible.

Memories rush back of my mother yelling at my father when he came back injured. Anoushka, however, is calmer beyond my wildest expectations.

"Alright," Anoushka says upon her return, the first aid kit in hand as she moves toward Dima. "We need to get you cleaned up."

She opens the box, pulls out some bandages, antiseptic, and cotton, and begins to pour the antiseptic on the cotton. She turns to me as she does and asks again. “What the hell happened?”

My fingers clench involuntarily as I try to form a convincing explanation. "It was just some trouble at the club," I say dismissively, hoping to put an end to her probing. "Nothing for you to worry about."

"Really?" She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "You both look like you've been through hell."

"Anoushka," I sigh, watching the way her steady hands wrap a bandage around Dima's arm. "Please, just let it be."

She looks like she’s about to argue, but I notice her make a reasonable calculation in her mind. She can tell I’m exhausted, and so she chooses the path of silence—of letting it be because I needed her to let it be.

And that, in itself, makes all the difference.

Suddenly, I feel safe.

I watch as she carefully cleans one of Dima's deeper cuts, her eyes flicking up to meet mine every so often. I can still feel the weight of her unasked questions, and my gut twists with unease.

I don’t want to tell her what happened because it was Yuri’s men. I don’t want her holding herself responsible. None of this is her fault.

As Anoushka focuses back on tending to Dima, I see the nurturing side of her that I've not yet seen. Even when faced with someone who's shown her nothing but disrespect, she's still capable of such kindness and care. It only deepens my appreciation for her and the strength she possesses.

"Thank you," Dima murmurs, his voice barely audible. Anoushka merely nods, patting his bandaged arm gently before turning to the other.

Dima’s injuries are deep and extensive. “I’m going to call the doctor,” I tell her, prepared to leave the room.

“Wait,” she says, turning to me. “I have to clean you up too.”

“I’m fine,” I protest. “Just a graze or two, a few minor bruises. I can take care of myself.”

She frowns in my direction and shakes her head. “Go call the doctor,” she permits. “But then, I’m coming to clean you up.”

The way she says it, leaving no room for argument, reminds me of someone I know.

Me.

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