Page 16 of Secret Bratva Twins

Serge insists on driving me home despite my protests. The stormy tension from the cemetery lingers between us as his sleek car cuts through the streets. He says little, his jaw tight and his hands firm on the wheel. I stare out the window, pretending to ignore him, though every glance at his profile sends a strange warmth through my chest.

When we arrive, I undo my seat belt and reach for the door handle, but something stops me. I hesitate, then glance at him. I’m staying in a nice hotel, though I doubt it’s nearly as nice as what Serge is used to.

Despite my better judgment, I speak. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

His sharp gaze shifts to me, searching for something. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’s never a good idea with you,” I murmur, half to myself. “I’m inviting you anyway.”

He doesn’t reply, just nods, and we step out of the car. As I unlock the door, my heart pounds. I know this won’t end with a casual drink. It never does with Serge. The tension between us is a living thing, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

The moment the door closes behind us, Serge’s frustration erupts. He presses me against the wall, his hands onmy hips, his mouth claiming mine. His kiss is demanding, filled with the intensity that he carries in everything he does.

It’s dizzying, the way he pulls me under his spell so effortlessly. I grip his shoulders, torn between wanting to melt into him and shoving him away. The taste of him is addicting, the heat of his body pressed against mine sending sparks down my spine.

Then the anger creeps in. The reminder of why this is such a terrible idea. I press my hands against his chest and push, breaking the kiss. “No,” I say breathlessly.

His brows knit together, a storm brewing in his eyes. He steps back sharply, his frustration evident in the way his jaw clenches. “Right. I’ll go.” His voice is low, a mix of anger and something else I can’t place.

As he turns to leave, my heart stammers. Panic grips me, and before I can think better of it, I reach out, wrapping my arms around him from behind. “Don’t go,” I whisper, my face pressed against his back. “Can you stay for a while?”

He stills under my touch, his broad shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. After a moment, he turns around, his hands gently cupping my face. His gaze softens in a way I’ve rarely seen, and it makes my chest ache.

“I’ll stay,” he says quietly.

I fight the urge to cry, hating the vulnerability I feel in this moment. “This is a bad idea,” I murmur, my voice trembling.

“Maybe,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You’re not the only one fighting this, Chiara.”

His words break through the walls I’ve tried to keep up. I lean into his touch, torn between the war raging in my head and the undeniable pull between us. For now, I let myself give in. Just for a while.

The storm outside rages on, thunder rumbling in the distance as we sit together on the couch. Serge pours us both another drink, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glasses like liquid fire. I take a cautious sip, the burn warming me from the inside.

Despite the weather, the room feels far from cold. The air between us is thick, charged with something I can’t quite define.

He leans back, one arm draped over the couch, the picture of ease. Except I know better. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes tell a different story. They’re distant, calculating—like he’s a thousand miles away.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.

He smirks, but it’s faint. “You’d be surprised how much is always on my mind.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He swirls the drink in his glass, staring at the liquid as if it holds the answers to the universe. “Do you ever feel like nothing you do will ever be enough?” he asks suddenly, his voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

The question catches me off guard. For a moment, I just look at him, unsure of how to respond. “I think everyone feels that way sometimes,” I offer cautiously. “Even you, apparently.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. “Even me.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes my chest tighten. Serge Sharov, the man who always seems in control, is sitting here admitting to… what? Doubt? Guilt?

“Anthony used to say the same thing,” he says after a moment, his tone distant.

I stiffen slightly. Anthony. I’ve heard that name before, in hushed conversations and stray comments. His best friend, theone who died under mysterious circumstances. I’ve never asked about it, never thought it was my place.

“What happened to him?” The question escapes me before I can stop it.

He glances at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I think he’s going to deflect, maybe make a sarcastic comment and move on. Then he sets his glass down on the coffee table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

---