Page 31 of Secret Bratva Twins

A sharp knock on the door jolts me back to reality. “Time’s up,” Serge calls out, his voice muffled but firm.

“Give me five more minutes,” I shout back, my tone sharper than I intended.

There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Three.”

I roll my eyes but savor the remaining moments, rinsing off and wrapping myself in a fluffy towel. My hair drips down my back as I step out of the shower, my skin pink from the heat. I glance around and spot a neatly folded shirt on the counter. It’s Serge’s. My own clothes are crumpled and dirty, unsuitable to wear again. With a resigned sigh, I pull on the oversized shirt and my jeans, leaving my wet hair wrapped in the towel.

When I open the door, Serge is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the shirt.

“You look good,” he says, his tone low and deliberate. “Better than I expected.”

I glare at him, my cheeks heating despite myself. “It’s your shirt, you couldn’t even get me something that fits?”

He smirks, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. His height and presence make the hallway feel smaller. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the way his eyes linger on my bare legs where the shirt doesn’t quite cover. “Well, enjoy the view. It’s all you’re getting.”

His smirk widens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he steps aside and gestures for me to follow him. “Come on. You’re not done answering my questions yet.”

With a sigh, I trail after him, the damp towel still perched atop my head. Whatever Serge has planned, I can’t let him see how much he affects me. Not now. Not ever.

We walk down the hallway, the sound of my bare feet soft against the wooden floor. Serge leads the way, his stride confident and unhurried, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. It’s in the set of his shoulders, the sharpness of his profile when he glances back to make sure I’m following.

When we reach the small sitting room, he motions for me to take a seat. I lower myself onto the couch cautiously, keeping my towel-wrapped hair in place as I sit back. Serge leans against the doorframe, his piercing gaze fixed on me.

“You’ve been quiet since the crash,” he says, his tone casual but laced with something darker. “No schemes, no attempts to run? That’s not like you.”

“Maybe I’ve learned my lesson,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting.”

His brows lift in mock surprise. “You, tired of fighting? That’s hard to believe.”

I shrug, ignoring the flutter of nerves in my chest. “Maybe I know when I’m outmatched.”

For a brief moment, something flickers in his expression—an emotion I can’t quite place. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual smirk.

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Because you are.”

I don’t respond, holding his gaze despite the chill his words send down my spine. Serge studies me for a moment longer, then turns toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he says over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we leave for Chicago.”

As he walks away, I lean back against the couch, my fingers twisting the hem of his oversized shirt. The fear is there, simmering beneath the surface, but so is something else. Something I can’t name, and something I wish I didn’t feel.

Chapter Thirteen - Serge

The engine purrs softly as I drive aimlessly, the empty roads ahead a faint blur. The early morning sky is painted with muted tones, clouds hanging low like my mood. I grip the steering wheel tighter, frustration simmering just below the surface. She’s mine now—caught, cornered—but the satisfaction I expected isn’t there.

I should hate her. After all, she nearly killed me. Poisoned me, left me for dead, and ran with my bloodline in tow. She did it with no hesitation. Yet here I am, unable to bring myself to end her the way I’ve ended countless others who’ve crossed me. Why? Why does her betrayal feel different?

My fingers drum on the leather wheel as I replay every moment of the past few days. Her defiance, her fire, the way she stood her ground even when she was at my mercy—it all fuels something in me I can’t fully understand.

The sharp buzz of her phone interrupts my thoughts. I glance at the screen. Hannah.

I let it ring once, twice, before answering, pressing the phone to my ear. Silence stretches as I wait, not speaking, letting the caller make the first move.

“Chiara, it’s Hannah,” a woman’s voice says, breathless and urgent. “The kids are waiting for you at Davey Avenue. Everything’s set, just like we planned. Don’t worry—they’re safe.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. The kids. My children.

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