Page 27 of Paid for By the Bratva

I stir my vodka, ice clinking. What can I say? That I'm terrified of our sham being caught? That he paid for me when he saw me being blackmailed? Or that he gets my heart racing when he looks into my eyes or possessively leads me down a path. Or how I get breathless when I think he’s one thing, and he goes and surprises me by doing the utter opposite?

Okay. I’mclearlyvery drunk. I’m sitting here, sipping this drink, trying to answer his sisters’ questions, but the thoughts running through my mind are confusing me even further. Why am I going and thinking I have an actual crush on Dima? Dima's eyes catch mine, dark and inscrutable. Somewhere in their depths, I sense the echo of my own uncertainty.

I lift my glass. "I think…this could be the start of something good. Dima grounds me. He understands me for who I am and helps me see the world in a different light."

“How…sweet,” Sofia says without a slight roll of her eyes. The conversation now shifts to what we did tonight. I take a sip, the whiskey burning its way down my throat and settling in my stomach like a smoldering ember. My head already feels heavy from the wine we had earlier, but I don't want to appear weak or ungrateful in front of the Orlov siblings, so I continue to drink.

I put my head in my hand, trying to focus. Dima says something I don't catch.

"Sorry, what?" I ask thickly.

"Are you alright?" Dima's voice cuts through the haze, his concern evident even in my clouded state. I try to nod, but my head feels as if it's made of lead, unable to lift itself from my shoulders.

"Excuse us for a moment," Dima says, his arm snaking around my waist as he pulls me to my feet. The room tilts dangerously, colors bleeding together, and I cling to him for support. He murmurs something to his siblings before guiding me away from the group, my legs feeling strangely detached from my body as we climb the stairs.

We reach the bedroom, and Dima eases me onto the bed. I can't help but feel a pang of disappointment at how the night has ended; I wanted to make a good impression, to show them that I was worthy of being a part of their family. Instead, I've embarrassed myself in front of everyone.

"Thank you," I mumble, my eyelids drooping as exhaustion threatens to pull me under. "I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's okay," Dima murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "You don't need to apologize. Just rest."

The warmth of Dima's large hand on my cheek is almost too much to bear, as if it holds all the heat of the sun itself. He gazes at me with concern, his eyes searching mine for any sign of discomfort.

"Would you like some water?" he asks gently. I shake, unable to form words in this moment, struck by the sudden, overwhelming intimacy between us. I don’t want him to leave. I reach up and place my hand over his. He smiles and kisses me on my forehead before pulling his hand away from under mine.

"Let me help you get comfortable," he says, his voice low and soothing. I feel my body relax under his touch, as if an unseen tension has been released from my very bones. Hecarefully removes my shoes, setting them aside before turning back to me. With deft fingers, he unclasps the necklace I'd been wearing, laying it on the nightstand next to the bed. My breath hitches at the sensation of his fingertips grazing my collarbone, the delicate touch sending shivers down my spine.

"Get some sleep," he whispers, brushing his lips against my forehead once again in a chaste, tender kiss. The restrained desire simmering beneath the surface of his touch sends my heart racing. And then, just like that, he's gone, leaving me to the silence of the room, and I drift off into a dreamless sleep.

***

Morning light filters through the curtains as I stir awake. My head throbs dully from all the drinks I had the previous night. As I try to shake off the haze of a horrid hangover and sleep, memories from the previous night come flooding back—dancing with Dima, the drive back, his siblings, his gentle touch as he helped me to bed.

I can't believe it all happened. A part of me wonders if it was just a dream, a figment of my alcohol-addled imagination. But the evidence is all around me—my shoes by the bed, the necklace on the nightstand. And that undeniable pull I felt toward him, the attraction that seemed to grow stronger with every passing moment.

I bury my face in my hands, trying to dispel the thoughts racing through my mind. This wasn't supposed to happen. Our marriage was an arrangement, a means to an end. I’m not meant to feel this way about Dima. And yet, I remember his touch. I wonder if he feels it, too.

Or was last night just a result of all the alcohol I consumed?

Either way, I worry I embarrassed myself in front of his family. Now is not the time to reflect on whether or not I’m developing feelings for Dima. Now is the time to find out if I made a terrible impression on his siblings.

I'm suddenly aware of how much I want these people to like me. It's not just because they're Dima's family; there's something about each of them that draws me in, making me yearn for their approval.

***

I step out of my bedroom and hear chatter downstairs. I walk toward the dining room, soon realizing that Dima’s siblings must have spent the night.

The room is lit bright from all the light entering through the large windows. The scent of fresh coffee and buttery pastries fills the air as I hesitantly step into the room. The Orlov siblings have all gathered around the table, their laughter ringing out like a lively melody. My heart flutters nervously in my chest—it's been such an unexpectedly eventful 24 hours, and now I'm about to face another challenge: brunch with my new family.

"Ah, there they are!" Natalia exclaims, raising her glass of orange juice in our direction. "Come, join us!"

“Good morning,” Sofia gives me a thin-lipped smile and motions to the chair beside her. I suddenly feel conscious, wondering how I look. She’s perfectly well-dressed, not a single blonde hair out of place.

I take a seat beside her. Artyom begins to pass me some platters while Sofia pours me some juice.

“It’s better than coffee,” she says with a neutral face. “For when you’re hungover.”

“Oh, of course. Thanks,” I murmur.

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