Page 35 of Married to the Bratva

The silence presses in, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards or the muffled footsteps of guards moving somewhere out of sight.

Eventually, I stumble across the library. And when I say library, I mean Library with a capital L. It’s a cathedral of books, shelves stretching so high they’ve got ladders attached.

A chandelier hangs above the center of the room, casting soft light across the rows of leather-bound spines.

“Wow,” I breathe, stepping inside. The faint smell of aged paper and polished wood wraps around me, and for a second, I forget where I am.

I trail my fingers along the edge of a shelf, my eyes scanning the titles. Everything from ancient philosophy to modern economics, with a healthy dose of Russian literature in between. I reach for a book on the top shelf, forgetting that I’m barely five-foot-four in heels, and—predictably—the entire stack wobbles.

“Crap!” I lunge to catch it, but gravity’s already won. The books crash to the floor, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.

Before I can even process the mess I’ve made, a voice cuts through the quiet. “Making yourself at home, I see.”

I spin around to find Maxim leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Of course, he’d show up now.

“I, uh…” I glance down at the pile of books at my feet. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

Maxim steps into the room, moving with that infuriating grace he has, like he’s gliding instead of walking. “It’s fine?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You just attacked an entire shelf.”

“It was an accident,” I snap, crouching to pick up the books. “Not all of us were born tall and terrifying.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but when I glance up, I catch the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You could’ve just used the ladder.”

“Didn’t notice it,” I mutter, stacking the books with more force than necessary. “Too busy marveling at your gothic Batcave.”

“That’s what you’re calling it now?”

“Fits, doesn’t it?” I stand, brushing off my hands. “Dark, brooding, slightly over-the-top.”

He smirks, stepping closer. “You forgot intimidating.”

“That too.” I roll my eyes but can’t help noticing how the air shifts when he’s this close. It’s like the room gets smaller, his presence filling every corner.

I bend to grab the last book, but Maxim reaches it first, his fingers brushing against mine as he picks it up. The brief contact sends a jolt through me, and I pull back quickly, hoping he didn’t notice.

He doesn’t hand the book to me right away. Instead, he studies the cover. “The Art of War.” His smirk returns, sharper this time. “Interesting choice.”

“Thought it might come in handy,” I say, crossing my arms. “You know, given my current situation.”

He holds the book out to me, his expression unreadable. “War requires strategy, Sophie. Impulse is a good way to get killed.”

“Good thing I’m not planning on fighting any wars,” I retort, snatching the book from his hand.

The words hang between us, heavier than I intended. His gaze lingers on mine, and for a moment, something unspoken passes between us. Then he steps back, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips.

“You might survive this yet,” he says, turning toward the door. “If you don’t bring down the rest of the house first.”

26

SOPHIE

Isit at one end of the dining table, the sheer distance between me and Maxim making the room feel colder than it is.

The smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and something faintly herbal wafts through the air, but I’m too tense to enjoy it.

The walls are lined with dark paneling, and heavy velvet curtains frame tall windows that look out onto the moonlit gardens. It’s beautiful in a haunting way, but it does nothing to ease the knot in my stomach.

Maxim sits at the other end, cutting into his steak with the precision of a surgeon.

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