Page 36 of Married to the Bratva

For a while, the only sound is the faint clink of silverware against porcelain. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until I can’t take it anymore.

“Do you need somewhere this big?” I say, gesturing to the room with my fork. “Compensating for something?”

“You’ve seen my cock. Do you think I need to compensate for anything?”

I can’t help but blush. “It’s not exactly homely here, is it?”

Maxim doesn’t look up. “It’s functional.”

“There’s that word again,” I mutter. “Does everything in your life have to be ‘functional,’ or is that just code for ‘soulless’?”

His knife pauses mid-cut, and for a second, I think I’ve crossed a line. But then he sets his utensils down and leans back, his dark eyes meeting mine.

“What do you want me to say, Sophie? That I bought this house with family dinners and warm laughter in mind?”

The bitterness in his tone catches me off guard, and I falter. “I didn’t mean?—”

“You’re here for twenty eight more days,” he continues, cutting me off. “What this house is or isn’t shouldn’t concern you.”

I grit my teeth, swallowing back the retort bubbling on my tongue. He’s so infuriatingly closed off, so cold, and yet there’s a flicker of something—pain, maybe?—beneath the surface that makes me hesitate.

After another tense silence, he sets his fork down and stares at me. “Andrei will want more than words.”

“More than words?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means we’ll need to be convincing next time we see him,” he says, his tone calm but firm. “We’re having dinner with him soon. He’ll expect to see affection. Trust. You’ll have to act like you actually enjoy being my wife.”

Before I can ask what he means, he stands and moves around the table, his steps slow and deliberate. He stops just behind my chair, and I stiffen, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Let’s test your acting skills,” he murmurs, his voice low and close to my ear. “Convince me you love me.”

I turn to face him, my breath catching as I meet his gaze. His dark eyes are locked on mine, their intensity making it impossible to look away. “Right now?”

“Right now,” he says, his tone a challenge. “If you can’t convince me, how will you convince Andrei?”

“Shouldn’t I be working on that file of yours?”

“You’ve spent three hours on it before being called for dinner. We can spare a few more minutes.”

I swallow hard, my mind racing. Every instinct screams at me to push him away, to refuse, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes makes my blood boil. He doesn’t think I can do it.

“Fine,” I say, standing abruptly. My chair scrapes against the floor, but I barely notice. I step closer to him, tilting my head slightly as I place a hand on his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my palm, a stark contrast to my own.

The tension crackles between us, thick and electric. His eyes flicker to my lips, and I feel a jolt of satisfaction. “How’s this for convincing?” I ask, my voice steady despite the way my stomach flips.

Before he can respond, I close the distance, pressing my lips to his. The kiss is impulsive, fueled by defiance and adrenaline, but it shifts immediately. His hand moves to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepens, turning into something I can’t control.

When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. Maxim’s expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something—respect, maybe?—in his eyes.

“Not bad,” he says quietly. “But you’ll need to be more convincing. Do it again.”

I glare at him, stepping back quickly. “Don’t push your luck.”

His smirk returns, infuriating and entirely too self-assured. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I smile, feeling a rush of confidence surge through me. I lean into him ever so slightly, allowing my lips to graze against his ear as I whisper, "I think it’s your turn now."

His hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush against his body. The heat radiating from him seeps into my skin, making me feel alive. And then, without warning, his lips crash into mine, demanding and insistent.

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