Page 46 of Married to the Bratva

The library has this air of quiet authority, like it’s meant for serious discussions and plotting world domination, not unwinding.

But here I am, flipping through a deck of cards I found tucked between two dusty old books. The cards are stiff, the edges worn, and the jokers have seen better days. Still, it’s something to distract me while my laptop runs through a lengthy subroutine.

“You play cards?” Maxim’s voice comes from the doorway, smooth as silk but carrying that familiar edge.

I look up and find him leaning casually against the doorframe, his dark suit immaculate, his eyes sharp. “Do you lurk in every corner of this mansion, or is it just a coincidence you show up when I’m trying to have some peace?”

“Neither,” he says, stepping inside. “It’s my house. I go where I want and my cameras see everything.”

I roll my eyes but shuffle the deck, the sound crisp in the quiet room. “Do you play, or are you just here to intimidate me?”

A smirk tugs at his lips as he approaches. “I don’t play. I win.”

“Oh, please.” I snort, laying the cards flat on the table. “Pick your game, Bratva boss. Let’s see if you can actually back that up.”

He sits across from me. The cards are between us, and the firelight casts flickering shadows that make the moment feel strangely intimate. He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, exuding confidence.

“Poker,” he says, dealing the first hand with a precision that’s unsettling. “But let’s make it interesting.”

“Interesting how?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“High stakes,” he replies, his smirk widening. “Every round, we raise the ante.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “And what exactly am I betting with? My stunning personality? I’m not exactly loaded, am I?”

“Clothes,” he says casually, and my jaw drops.

“Strip poker?” I sputter. “Seriously? Are we in college?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I assumed you could handle a little risk.”

For a second, I consider throwing the cards at him. But then I see the glint in his eyes, the challenge he’s practically daring me to accept. My competitive streak flares, and I square my shoulders.

“Fine,” I say, picking up my cards. “But don’t cry when you’re down to your socks.”

Cards shuffle in my hands as I give him a sly look. His sharp jawline is set in that infuriatingly calm expression, but there’s a flicker of something behind his dark eyes—interest, challenge, amusement. He thinks he’s going to win.

And honestly? He probably will. But not without a fight.

“You realize I’m going easy on you,” I say, smirking as I win the first hand.

His mouth quirks at the corner. “You keep telling yourself that, malyshka. It might soften the sting when you’re bare and begging for mercy.”

“Bold words for a man who just lost his tie,” I counter, nodding to the silk strip lying forlorn on the arm of a nearby chair.

He leans back, exuding the kind of confidence that makes my stomach twist. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and I hate how distracting that is.

“You forget, I let you win that round. I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security.”

I snort, glancing at my cards. A pair of eights—not great, but not terrible. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. But don’t cry when I take your socks.”

His low chuckle rolls across the table. “If you want my socks, Sophie, all you have to do is ask. But I’m warning you now—there’s no mercy once I’m done.”

I manage to pull off another win, and he sighs dramatically as he tugs at the buttons of his shirt.

“Careful,” I tease. “The librarian might come in here and tell you to keep it down.”

“Funny,” he says, tossing the shirt onto the chair with a casual flick of his wrist. “We’ll see who’s laughing in a minute.”

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