Page 45 of Captured By the Bratva

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he warns, but there’s warmth in his tone that surprises me.

“Too late,” I quip, unable to hold back a grin. “Think I might be winning here, Ivan.”

In response, he steps up his game, but there’s something lighter about his presence, as if he’s actually enjoying the back-and-forth banter. I realize I am, too. For a few moments, we’re just two people on a tennis court, testing each other, laughing, and letting our guards down in a way that feels almost normal.

When the game finally ends, I’m panting and leaning on my racket, trying to catch my breath. Ivan walks over, his expression thoughtful as he hands me a water bottle.

“Not bad,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

“Not bad yourself,” I reply, taking a long drink. Our eyes meet, and in the quiet of the court, there’s something unspoken between us—a recognition, maybe, that we’ve let each other in just a little.

28

CATHY

The rain taps rhythmically against the mansion’s tall windows, casting a soft, steady hum through the cozy screening room. I settle into the plush leather sofa, pulling a blanket over my legs as Ivan takes his seat beside me.

A stack of Blu-ray's are piled on the table between us—my selection of strange, little-known comedies and romance films he’s never heard of.

I look over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Ready to broaden your horizons?”

He smirks, his expression indulgent yet skeptical. “I still don’t understand why I’d need to watch Cold Comfort Farm. What do I care about farming?”

“It’s about life and choices, actually. You know, things I think you’d appreciate,” I counter, hitting play. The screen lights up, bringing the quirky British countryside to life.

At first, Ivan sits stiffly, probably baffled by the eccentric humor, but soon enough, his mouth quirks up at a few of the stranger lines. When Flora declares that the farm “needs a little organization,” he chuckles under his breath, a sound so rare I almost miss it.

“You’re actually laughing,” I tease.

“I’m intrigued, that’s all,” he says, though his tone carries a hint of amusement. “Is that an air rifle she’s pointing at her aunt?”

“Yes! That’s what’s great about it. The absurdity just keeps building,” I say, nudging his shoulder.

As the night stretches on, I pick another old favorite, Strictly Ballroom. “Now this one, you’ll love—or at least you should,” I say, casting him a daring glance.

The film fills the room with vivid colors and dramatic Spanish guitars. Ivan’s reserved laughter fills the room as the over-the-top dance moves and unapologetically romantic declarations unfold.

When one of the characters proclaims, “A life lived in fear is a life half-lived,” Ivan’s smirk fades, his gaze fixed on the screen with a sort of quiet intensity.

“Interesting line,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“Think it’s true?” I ask, drawn in by his pensive look.

“Maybe,” he says, still watching the screen. “Depends on the kind of fear.”

29

CATHY

Iwatch the pot simmering on the stove, a mix of nervousness and anticipation fluttering in my chest. I had no idea Russian cooking would be so complicated.

After many hours with Anya and lots of reminders, I’ve managed to create something that looks halfway presentable—pelmeni, little dumplings Ivan supposedly loved once upon a time.

I set the table, arranging the plates and silverware just so, waiting for Ivan to come in. He steps into the kitchen, his gaze landing on the carefully prepared spread. His usual guarded expression softens, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“You made pelmeni?” he asks, an unusual warmth slipping into his voice.

I smile, shrugging in what I hope looks like nonchalance. “I thought it’d be nice to try something different,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Anya told me you liked these as a kid.”

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