Page 71 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

“Guess what we are doing for dinner tonight?” I say, standing in the kitchen, unpacking the backpack.

“Lobster?” she laughs.

“Nice one. But no—we are making a bonfire in the garden. I’ve been wanting to have one here since I got the place. Tonight is the perfect night for it.”

“Can we make smores?” She jumps up a little.

“Of course.”

“Okay, but I should shower and change, I have half the forest stuck in my hair. “

“And on your pants.” I smack her butt as she walks past, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

While she is showering, I start marinating some meat and carry it outside to the fire pit to cook later over the hot coals.

By the time I am building the bonfire, she comes outside looking cozy in her sweatpants and a big jacket with fluff around the edge of the hood.

“Hey, you can’t light it without me,” she declares, hurrying over to my side.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Come help me build it.”

She grabs a handful of logs and starts stacking them up. I find myself watching her again. She just faces everything head on. If I suggest something, she’s always keen to try it. She doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything.

I can’t help admiring her spirit.

Getting to know the real her has been eye-opening.

She throws a twig at me. It hits me in the chest and drags my mind back into the moment.

“Stop daydreaming. We have a bonfire to build.”

I pick up the twig and throw it back at her, but she ducks out of the way.

It’s odd to think, but we’ve become really close friends as well.

We get on better than anyone else I’ve ever met.

She is just perfect—

Shit. There I go again. Daydreaming about something that can never be.

Clara picks up the lighter on the edge of the fire pit and turns to grin at me. “Is it time?” She asks, holding the lighter up and flicking it to life, the tiny flame dancing in the night air.

“It’s time.”

Before she lights it, I pour a little flammable liquid over the logs, then hand her a long stick, because there is no way in hell I am letting her light the fire up close.

She sets the end of the stick on fire and pushes it into the log pile, which bursts into flames, sending a wall of heat washing over us.

I pull her behind me, but she peeks out, grinning.

“I might like fire too.”

“You little pyromaniac stargazer. You are turning feral on me.” I laugh.

“I’m starting to believe that being feral isn’t that bad. A wild child at heart. I guess I have been trapped indoors too long and now it is all coming out at once.”

“It does look good on you—this wildness.”

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