Page 22 of Brutal Bratva King

She picks up a napkin, folds it, and places it on one of the plates.

“Well, go and wash up. It will be ready in a few minutes,” she demands, throwing me a stern look.

“Jeez, ok, wow. I’m going, I’m going.”

Leaving the dining room, I’m still smiling.

She’s definitely standoffish, but she cooked us dinner. Or am I reading into this too much? I mean—she has to eat. I might have just been a side thought where she cooked extra because she had to. Yes, that’s probably what happened. This isn’t a gesture for me.

I wash my hands and shrug my jacket off my shoulder, leaving it in the bedroom. I roll up my sleeves on my way back to the dining room.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Oh please, you wouldn’t know your way around a kitchen if you tried.”

She walks into the dining room carrying a bowl of pasta with a crunchy layer of cheese grilled on top.

“That looks incredible,” I say as my stomach growls eagerly.

“It’s the dish I always had to make for my brothers. If I hadn’t cooked for them, they would have lived off of grilled cheese and takeout. This was their favorite.”

“So, you can only make one thing?” I taunt her again, watching her expression and waiting for that smile to return.

“Yes, asshole. I can only makeonething.Ever. My brothers grew up eating pasta—nothing else.” She rolls her eyes so dramatically that it looks like she is going to lose her balance.

“I thought so,” I nod.

She sighs loudly as she sits down.

Picking up a plate, she dishes some up for herself and says nothing to me.

Shaking my head, I pick up my own plate and scoop a healthy portion onto it.

The food is divine. Creamy, rich, and full of flavor.

I want to tell her how good it is, but I don’t think she deserves another compliment with her smug little attitude flaring up like it is.

“Did you and Raisa have fun today? Gossiping?” I say instead.

“Yup, we spoke about you theentiretime. She told me everything.”

“Is that so?”

She nods sternly.

“Did she tell you that I am the one who used to cook for my family?”

I grin.

Anya’s eyes lock onto me. She is weighing up the truth of my words.

“Mm. I guess it’s something you are going to have to prove,” she says eventually.

There is a glint of mischief in her eyes. I was right. She is being playful. Cheeky. Full of attitude. But playful.

She is definitely nowhere near as defensive or combative as she has been with me before.

“If you’re lucky, I’ll only wear the black apron and nothing else while I cook.”

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