Page 53 of Married to the Bratva

“Well, maybe not everything,” I admit, setting a mug in front of him. “But it’s better than vodka at this time in the morning.”

He nods toward the stove. “You should eat something.”

“I’m fine,” I say, brushing him off.

“You skipped dinner,” he points out, his tone softer but still commanding. Before I can argue, he’s already opening the fridge, pulling out a container of leftovers. “Again.”

“I don’t need—” I start, but he cuts me off with a look.

“Sit,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

I glare at him but sit down, crossing my arms as he heats up the food. It’s surreal watching him in the kitchen, moving with the same confidence he does in every other part of his life. But there’s something quieter about it, something domestic.

He sets the plate in front of me, the smell of roasted chicken and herbs making my stomach growl despite my protests. “There,” he says, sitting across from me. “Now you’re being a good girl.”

We eat in relative silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels like a truce—a moment where the lines between us blur just enough to make me forget how dangerous he is.

“So,” I say after a while, breaking the quiet. “Do you do this for all your prisoners, or am I special?”

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You’re special, Sophie.”

“High praise,” I reply, though my tone is more teasing than sincere. “Careful. I might start thinking you actually like me.”

His smirk fades, and for a moment, his gaze turns serious. “I do.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected. Before I can respond, he stands, taking his empty mug with him. “Check out that cupboard to your left.”

I pull it open and look inside. A case of peanut butter with a note on top.

Stop stealing mine. Men have died for less.

I turn to thank him but he’s already gone, leaving me alone with my coffee and my thoughts.

38

SOPHIE

Two weeks later…

The glow of the screen is the only light in the room, casting everything in shades of pale blue.

My fingers move on autopilot, running strings of code through a decrypting program I designed years ago. It’s not flashy, but it’s effective. Maxim says it’s a lot like me. He says it with a smile but I get the feeling his patience is wearing thin.

The file’s encryption fights back, shifting patterns like a Rubik’s Cube on steroids, but I’ve been chasing this thing for long enough. I’m starting to learn its methods. I’m not about to let it win.

It’s been two weeks since I started work on the code. The timer reminds me whenever I glance at it. Eighteen days to go. The meal with Andrei keeps being delayed, I’ve no idea if that’s good or bad but Maxim is sure it’s going to happen soon.

The final algorithm clicks into place, the screen flashes a confirmation message. A string of numbers appears, bold and triumphant.

I lean back. At last.

I have something concrete. Buried deep. Coordinates. The location where the program is running from. It’s not the answer but it’s a start. A smile tugs at my lips despite the nerves still jittering through me.

I grab a notepad and scribble the numbers down, tucking the pen behind my ear as I head to Maxim’s study.

I can already picture his stoic expression, his way of making you feel like you’ve done everything right and wrong at the same time. But screw that. This is progress, and I’m going to make sure he knows it.

His study door is slightly ajar when I get there, and I push it open without knocking. Maxim’s wiping something from his hands, something that looks a lot like blood. He glances up as I enter, his expression neutral.

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