Page 45 of Married to the Bratva

Nikolai chuckles, his laugh rare and rough. “You want ice cream, Mrs. Abramov? I’ll make a note.”

My heart does something to hear her named as my wife. Thirty days, I remind myself. That’s all I promised her. I can’t keep her. Look at what happened with Dimitri. How long before my world crushes her innocence for good.

I can hear the grin in her voice. “Put it right at the top of the list. Right below peanut butter.”

“He has peanut butter,” Nikolai replies. “He is the only one in the house who likes it.”

“So you’re telling me he has a private stash? Interesting. Where is it?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Even more interesting.”

At lunch, as the staff begin clearing the table, I lean toward one of the kitchen hands. “Bring it out,” I say quietly. She nods, disappearing into the back.

Sophie’s eyes narrow as she watches me. “What’s that smirk for?”

“You’ll see,” I reply, leaning back in my chair.

She returns a moment later, setting down an elaborate glass bowl in front of Sophie. It’s piled high with scoops of ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and a cherry on top. The kind of indulgence that doesn’t belong in a house like this.

Sophie’s jaw drops, and for a moment, she’s speechless. Then she looks up at me, her eyes bright with surprise. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t I?” I say, keeping my tone casual. “Better eat it myself then, hadn’t I?”

“No chance. Get your own.”

She picks up the spoon, taking a small bite. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and I feel something tighten in my chest. When she looks at me again, her expression is softer.

“This doesn’t fit your whole ‘dark and menacing’ vibe, you know,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice.

“Don’t get used to it,” I reply, but there’s no bite to the words.

She smiles, and for a moment, the tension between us melts away, replaced by something lighter. Something dangerous.

“What?” I ask. “What did you do?”

She reaches under the table and pulls out my jar of peanut butter. “Ice cream goes better with this on top, don’t you think?”

“How did you get that?”

“Your kitchen tricks don’t fool me. Hidden behind the oatmeal, honestly?”

She smears peanut butter onto her sundae, looking perfectly at home, her face lit with an expression that feels out of place in this house—happiness. I should hate it. I should see it as a weakness. Instead, it pulls at something in me I thought was long gone.

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. I can’t be in here anymore. Her gaze flicks to me, curiosity flickering across her face.

“You’re going?” she says, sounding hurt.

“I have work to do,” I say, my voice clipped. “So do you.”

“Goodbye, Maxim,” she replies, her tone light but thoughtful.

I walk away without speaking, my fists clenched at my sides. She’s dangerous, this woman. Not because of what she knows, but because she’s making me feel.

34

SOPHIE

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