Page 14 of Married to the Bratva

He moves across the room, the faint sound of his shoes tapping against the marble floor filling the silence. He picks up a remote from the coffee table and flicks on the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.

The screen flares to life, bathing the room in soft light, but I don’t look at it—I’m too busy watching him.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he lifts up a blanket and sets it over my shoulders.

“Sit with me,” he says casually, like this is all perfectly normal. “Fresh clothes are on their way. Until then, take a break. You look like you need one.”

10

SOPHIE

Isink into the plush cushions, the warmth of the fire a welcome contrast to the cold tension in my body.

The TV plays some old action movie—one of those overly dramatic, explosion-filled flicks that my dad used to watch when I was a kid.

I catch myself smiling, just barely, and quickly school my expression. The last thing I need is for Maxim to think I’m enjoying any part of this nightmare.

“You like this?” he asks, surprising me.

I glance at him, unsure if he’s mocking me or genuinely curious. “It’s fine,” I say cautiously.

“Fine?” He smirks. “This is a classic.”

“Classic?” I snort. “It’s a cliché. Let me guess—the hero saves the girl, blows up the bad guy, and walks off into the sunset?”

“Something like that,” he replies, leaning back against the couch. “But sometimes clichés work. Look at you, tech wiz workaholic, striving hard to make sure you don’t turn into your own shitty mother, so far so cliché. But I bet you can get that file unlocked.”

I glance at him sideways, surprised by the relaxed way he says it. For a moment, he doesn’t look like the man who dragged me into his car and told me I was his. He just looks normal.

“So, what?” I ask, unable to resist the jab. “You’re saying you’re not the clichéd bad guy in this scenario? Penthouse layer, shoot his own guards in a rage, only care about money. Let me guess, you work hard to push down the shame of a junkie mother, right?”

He smirks again, his gaze sliding to mine. “If I were a bad guy, would you tell me?”

“Absolutely,” I say, holding his stare. “And I’d tell you you’re doing a terrible job of hiding it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I feel an absurd sense of victory at making him laugh.

“You’re not exactly what I expected,” he says after a moment, his tone quieter now.

“What did you expect?” I ask, raising a brow. “Someone who’d sit quietly and say thank you for the kidnapping?”

“I need that money back and you’re my only way of getting it.”

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the explosions on the screen. I feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of it pressing against me like a physical thing.

“You trusted people too easily in your past,” he says, ignoring my question. “That’s why you ended up here. You believed Evan. The lies he told you.”

His words hit harder than they should. “And what about you?” I shoot back. “You don’t trust anyone, I bet?”

“Trust is a liability,” he says simply, his expression unreadable.

“That sounds lonely,” I say before I can stop myself.

His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable flashing across his face. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue, but instead, he leans back, his gaze drifting to the TV.

“Maybe,” he says quietly.

The moment hangs between us, heavy and unspoken, before I tear my eyes away and focus on the screen. The hero is running from an explosion, the flames chasing him as he dives to safety.

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