Page 46 of Secret Bratva Twins

Leo looks up at her, his voice small. “You’ll come get us tomorrow, right?”

“Of course,” Chiara whispers, brushing her fingers through his hair.

Katya gives her a reassuring nod before leading the children out of the room. Chiara watches them go, her expression torn between relief and worry.

“They’ll be fine,” I say, my tone softer than I intend.

She glances at me, her voice tight. “I know.”

I step closer, holding her gaze. “Do you?”

Her eyes harden, but I see the doubt flicker in them. “I trust Katya with them. That doesn’t mean I trust you.”

My lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Fair enough.”

Her disbelief rises again, her words cutting through the space between us. “Are we going to consummate the wedding night? I’m assuming that’s why your mother was so insistent on taking the kids.”

I smirk faintly, letting the silence stretch before responding. “We’re sharing a room,” I say simply. “You’re my wife now. You’ll live as one in every aspect.”

Her expression tightens, but I step closer, lowering my voice as I lean in. “That,” I whisper, “is your punishment.”

Her breath catches, the slightest hitch that betrays her composure. I don’t move, letting the silence settle between us, my dark gaze fixed on hers. She doesn’t back away, but her defiance is fraying at the edges. I can see it in the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her face, in the way her shoulders tense as if bracing for the next blow.

“You think this is a punishment?” she snaps, her voice sharper now, trying to claw back the control she knows she doesn’t have.

I tilt my head slightly, my reply calm, unwavering. “I know it is. You hate me, Chiara. That much is obvious. Now you’ll have to live with me, in my world, under my rules. That’s your reality.”

Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, her fury barely contained. “You think you can control me like this?” she says, the words biting but laced with fear she tries desperately to mask.

I allow a faint smirk to play at my lips, deliberate and dangerous. “I already do.”

She flinches, barely, but it’s enough. Enough to tell me that my words have struck deeper than she’d like to admit. Her eyes blaze with defiance, but her body betrays her, the tension in her frame pulling her taut as a bowstring.

“Then you’ve underestimated me,” she spits, her voice trembling but still filled with fire.

I take a step closer, watching as her hands curl into fists at her sides. She doesn’t retreat, even as I invade the small space between us. “Maybe I have,” I say quietly, my tone almost reflective. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

Her nails dig into her palms, her knuckles white with the effort to steady herself. I know I’m pushing her, testing how far she’ll go before she cracks. I can see the war in her eyes, the fight between anger and fear, between standing her ground and giving in.

“You can force me into this marriage, Serge,” she says, her voice low but trembling with barely contained rage. “You can’t force me to be your wife in the way you want.”

Her words should sting, but they don’t. Instead, they spark something darker, something that tightens in my chest and sharpens my focus. I step closer still, until there’s no spaceleft between us, until my presence becomes something she can’t ignore.

“Careful, Chiara,” I warn, my voice low, edged with steel. “You’re not in control here. Remember that.”

The air between us feels heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. She swallows hard, her jaw tightening as her gaze refuses to waver. She’s trying to be strong, trying to hold on to what little power she thinks she has left.

I lean back slightly, giving her a fraction of space, but my words remain heavy in the air. For now, she won’t break, but I can see the cracks forming, and I know it’s only a matter of time.

Chapter Eighteen - Chiara

Steam fills the bathroom, clinging to the mirrored surfaces and curling around me as I step out of the shower. The warmth is soothing against my skin, but my heart pounds harder with each passing moment. I grip the plush towel tightly around myself, staring at my reflection in the fogged mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my hair damp and curling against my shoulders.

This is his bathroom. Now, apparently, it’s mine too. The realization sinks in like a weight pressing against my chest. I’m Serge’s wife. Legally bound. His name is now tied to mine, and there’s no undoing it.

My eyes dart to the counter where an array of items waits—lingerie, carefully chosen and undeniably provocative. A pale silk set trimmed with delicate lace, its softness contradicting the tension in the air.

Beside it sits a bottle of perfume, the glass bottle etched with an intricate design. I uncapped it earlier, catching the faint floral and spicy scent that felt far too intimate to wear.

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