Page 52 of Married to the Bratva

It’s not soft or gentle. It’s anger and frustration and something neither of us wants to name. His hands grip my waist, pulling me against him, and I kiss him back with just as much fire.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, our foreheads touching. His voice is low and rough when he speaks. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I smirk, though my heart is still racing. “Right back at you.”

His lips hover close, brushing against mine, teasing me with the promise of another kiss. The raw intensity in his eyes sends a shiver through me—danger and desire in equal measure.

“I should walk away,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “Before this goes too far.”

“Then why don’t you?” I challenge, my voice softer than I want it to be, but no less defiant.

His hand moves to my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Because you make it impossible for me to be away from you.”

I hate how much I want this. How much I want him. But right now, I don’t care.

He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides, leaving me feeling both relieved and bereft.

“I’m not a good man, Sophie,” he says, his tone colder now, like a shield snapping back into place.

He holds the gun out to me, his expression unreadable. “You’re not leaving this room until you hit the target dead center,” he adds, nodding toward the distant paper silhouette.

I take the gun reluctantly, my hands still trembling. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

He smirks, stepping behind me. “And you’re stubborn. We’re a perfect match.”

His hands cover mine again, steadying my grip, and I hate how much I crave his touch, even now. He guides me through the stance, his voice low and sure as he whispers instructions.

This time, when I pull the trigger, the shot lands near the center of the target. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to make me grin.

“Better,” he says, his voice proud.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I reply, handing him the gun. “I’m a fast learner.”

“You have a good teacher.” He glances at his watch. “I must speak with Andrei. The dinner with him approaches. Get back to work.”

37

SOPHIE

Iclimb out of bed, glancing at the clock. Two in the morning. I can’t sleep. I pull on a hoodie and head for the kitchen.

If nothing else, I can make coffee and pretend to be the kind of person who doesn’t exist in a Bratva boss’s mansion.

The kitchen is massive, gleaming steel and marble, but it feels strangely empty, like I’m at the Overlook the day after it shut for the winter.

“Looking for more peanut butter?” Maxim’s voice comes from the doorway, startling me so badly I nearly knock the coffee pot over.

“Jesus!” I snap, spinning around. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Do you have some kind of radar that activates whenever I try to have a moment alone?”

“Maybe,” he says, stepping into the room. “Or maybe you’re just predictable.”

I roll my eyes, turning back to the stove. “Predictable? Says the man who probably hasn’t changed his routine in ten years.”

He chuckles, low and quiet, as he moves to the counter and leans against it. “And yet, here you are, in my kitchen, making coffee like I guessed.”

“Coffee fixes everything,” I reply, grabbing two mugs without thinking.

“Does it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as I pour it out.

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