Page 38 of Captured By the Bratva

“Enjoying yourself?” I call out, catching my breath as he prepares to serve again.

His gaze is steady on me as he spins the ball between his fingers. “Don’t get cocky. I’m just getting started.”

We dive into the next rally, our laughter and banter filling the space. Every so often, I catch him stealing glances at me, an almost boyish mischief sparking in his eyes.

It’s as if the roles have melted away, as if we’re just two people, free from obligations or shadows, enjoying the thrill of a game.

Finally, after a long, exhausting rally, I make a wild swing that misses the ball entirely. It bounces out of bounds, and I bend over, gasping for air, laughing at my own dramatic finish. Ivan, too, lowers his racket, walking over to where I stand, still breathless and smiling.

He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable but softer than usual. “Not bad,” he says, his voice almost warm, a hint of admiration slipping through his usual reserve.

“Not bad?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “I practically had you running in circles.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that.” Then, in a rare moment of playfulness, he reaches out, lightly tapping my shoulder with his racket. “Come on. You’ve earned yourself a drink.”

22

CATHY

Iget washed and changed, finding Ivan already in the kitchen when I arrive, sleeves rolled up, pulling ingredients from the fridge. He glances over his shoulder as I enter, his expression unreadable, but a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Anya suggested I cook for you,” he says, holding up a handful of fresh herbs. “Traditional Russian food.”

“Did she?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, amused by the thought of Ivan in an apron.

Curious and intrigued, I find myself moving closer, glancing over the array of ingredients laid out on the counter—beets, dill, potatoes, and a variety of spices. I brush my fingers over a bunch of dill, its scent sharp and earthy. “I didn’t expect you to know your way around a kitchen.”

He shrugs, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “I learned from my mother,” he says, his voice softening in a way that surprises me. “She loved to cook.”

His tone catches me off guard, and I can’t help but ask, “What was she like?”

He pauses, looking down at the potato in his hand. “She was gentle with me and Elena,” he says, a touch of warmth creepinginto his voice. “She had a way of making the simplest things feel like treasures. She used to say cooking was her way of keeping us together, especially when things got difficult. My father was not a kind man.”

As he begins peeling the potato, I pick up a knife and start slicing beets beside him, feeling the silence between us deepen in a way that feels less like tension and more like shared understanding.

“She taught me how to make dishes like borscht and pelmeni,” he continues, his voice distant, as if he’s seeing her in his mind.

I glance over, noticing how his face softens slightly, a hint of vulnerability that he rarely allows to surface. It’s a stark contrast to the strong, unyielding man I know him as, and for a moment, I glimpse the boy he must have once been—someone sheltered, protected, by a mother who, in her own way, was his refuge.

“It sounds like she was an amazing woman,” I say softly, genuinely touched by the way he speaks about her.

He nods, a shadow passing over his face. “She was,” he murmurs, his gaze steady, but there’s a hint of something in his eyes—a pain that he quickly pushes back, returning his focus to the food. “Enough of that. You’ll ruin the borscht if you keep slicing the beets like that.”

I roll my eyes, smirking as I adjust my technique, earning a half-smile from him.

As we continue cooking, I find myself relaxing, even laughing as he describes foods he dislikes with a distasteful grimace. “No olives,” he declares, shaking his head. “They’re vile.”

“Really?” I ask, suppressing a grin. “The tough, terrifying Ivan Morosov is afraid of a little olive?”

“Fear has nothing to do with it,” he retorts, his eyes narrowing playfully. “They’re offensive.”

I laugh, the sound filling the kitchen, and to my surprise, he chuckles too, the sound low and rumbling.

It feels like a moment out of time, the mansion’s dark, foreboding atmosphere softened by our shared laughter, by the smell of food simmering, by the easy rhythm we’ve found in each other’s company.

When we finally sit down to eat, I take a bite, savoring the rich, savory flavors. “This is actually… delicious,” I admit, and he gives me a satisfied smirk, as if he expected no less.

“Good,” he says, leaning back with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “In traditional Russian households, cooking a meal together is practically a promise.”

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