Page 66 of Secret Bratva Twins

“Liar,” he murmurs, his tone light but edged with something deeper.

I turn off the burner, sliding the grilled cheese onto a plate and stepping away from him. “Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to eat?” I ask, shoving the plate toward him.

He takes it, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just watches me, the smirk fading into something softer. “You’re not like anyone else, Chiara,” he says suddenly, his voice low.

The words catch me off guard, and I look up at him, my heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, stepping closer, “that you make this house feel alive. You make it feel like more than just a place to sleep.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words don’t come. Instead, I find myself staring at him, the weight of his words settling heavily between us.

Just then, he leans down, his lips brushing against my cheek, then lower, grazing the corner of my mouth. My breath catches, my body frozen as the warmth of him surrounds me.

Before I can stop myself, my head tilts slightly, drawn toward him as though pulled by an invisible thread. His lips, warm and deliberate, brush against mine—not demanding, but coaxing, testing. My breath hitches, the spatula slipping from my hand and clattering softly against the counter.

“Serge…,” I murmur, but his name comes out more as an exhale than a protest.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his blue eyes searching mine, unreadable and yet heavy with intent. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, though there’s no sign he actually wants to hear me say it.

I can’t.

Instead of pushing him away, my fingers curl into his shirt, holding him there, anchoring myself in the storm of emotions swirling around me. His eyes flash with something primal, and before I can second-guess myself, he closes the distance again, this time with certainty.

The kiss deepens, his mouth claiming mine as his hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair.There’s nothing gentle about it now—it’s all heat and hunger, his control barely restrained. I meet his fervor with my own, surprised by the way I lean into him, craving the intensity of his touch.

He presses me back slightly, pinning me gently but firmly against the counter. The edge digs into my hip, but I barely notice, too consumed by the way his lips move against mine, the way his hands explore my waist, holding me close as though I might disappear if he lets go.

I gasp softly when his teeth graze my bottom lip, a spark shooting through me that makes my knees feel weak. His other hand slides to my lower back, pulling me flush against him. It’s dizzying, intoxicating, and for a moment, I forget everything else—where we are, who we are, all of it lost in the heat of the moment.

Then the faint scent of melted butter and burning bread drifts through the air, grounding me.

“Wait,” I breathe against his lips, my fingers pressing against his chest to create some space.

His forehead rests against mine, his breath ragged as he struggles to calm himself. “What is it?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

I glance at the counter, at the abandoned plate of grilled cheese. “We’re going to burn it if we don’t move soon,” I say, a shaky laugh escaping me.

He follows my gaze, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I suppose that would be a shame,” he says, though his tone suggests the food is the last thing on his mind.

Still, he steps back reluctantly, reaching for the plate and holding it up. “If we’re taking this, we’re doing it right,” he says, his smirk returning as he nods toward the stairs.

I raise an eyebrow, but I follow him, my heart still racing as we ascend together.

In the bedroom, he sets the plate down on the nightstand before pulling back the covers. “Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to sit.

I settle into the bed, suddenly aware of how intimate this feels, but the tension softens as he hands me half of the sandwich and joins me.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I laugh—softly, genuinely—as we sit there, sharing a midnight snack in bed. It’s strange and surreal, yet somehow, it feels perfectly right.

Serge leans back against the headboard, the warm light from the bedside lamp casting a soft glow across his face. He’s already halfway through his half of the sandwich, his sharp, calculating eyes darting between me and the remaining piece sitting on the plate in my lap.

I pick up the sandwich, holding it out to him with a raised eyebrow. “Here,” I say, my tone light but teasing. “You’re a big guy; you could use more food.”

He narrows his eyes at me, suspicion flashing across his face. “You’re being awfully generous all of a sudden,” he says, his tone dry.

I groan, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Oh, for God’s sake.” I take a deliberate bite out of the sandwich, chewing exaggeratedly before swallowing. “See? Not poisoned. Satisfied?”

---