Page 44 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“You’ll find something to do,” I reply smoothly. “A hobby. Something you can manage within the confines of the house.”

She scoffs, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, sure. I’ll take up knitting or embroidery like some nineteenth-century housewife.”

I smirk, raising an eyebrow. “If that’s what you’d like, I’ll have the supplies brought in.”

Her glare sharpens, and for a moment, I think she’s about to throw something at me. Instead, she exhales sharply, shaking her head. “This sucks.”

“Maybe, but I’m right,” I counter, leaning forward slightly. “This isn’t negotiable, Hannah. Your safety comes first, whether you like it or not.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue further. She pushes her plate away slightly, her appetite clearly diminished. “I’ll think of something,” she mutters, her tone clipped.

“You will,” I say, my voice softer now. “Whatever you choose, I’ll ensure you have what you need to do it well.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, and for a brief moment, I see something shift in her expression. It’s not acceptance, but maybe a small step toward understanding.

The silence stretches again, and this time, it feels less suffocating.

The quiet stretches between us, broken only by the faint clink of silverware against fine china. I watch Hannah as she takes small bites of the food in front of her—a plate of delicately scrambled eggs, fresh berries glistening with dew, and a buttery croissant that practically melts in the mouth.

Her movements are deliberate, almost hesitant, like she’s picking at the food more out of obligation than enjoyment.

“You’re not eating much,” I comment, leaning back in my chair and sipping my coffee.

She glances up briefly, her brow furrowing. “I’m not really used to… this.”

I raise an eyebrow, gesturing toward the spread between us. “You mean breakfast?”

“This kind of breakfast,” she clarifies, setting her fork down. “Fancy. Over the top. I’ve never had food like this.”

I study her for a moment, the corners of my lips tugging into a faint smirk. “What do you usually eat, then?”

“Cereal,” she says, almost defiantly. “Sometimes French toast if I had time before class. Nothing like this.”

I chuckle softly, setting my cup down. “Toast and cereal?”

“Yes,” she replies, her voice clipped. “Not everyone has a personal chef to whip up a gourmet meal every morning.”

“You don’t need a chef,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll make it for you.”

That catches her off guard. Her eyes widen, and she stares at me as if I’ve just suggested something absurd. “You’d cook for me?”

“I would,” I say simply, my tone leaving no room for doubt.

She looks skeptical, leaning back in her chair. “Why?”

“I want you to be happy,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Her expression hardens, and she looks away, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate. “I won’t be,” she says quietly, her voice laced with a bitterness that cuts deeper than I expect.

I frown, the sharpness of her words catching me off guard. “You can’t know that,” I reply, my voice firm but not unkind. “Things can change.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine, her eyes flashing. “You think I’ll just magically be okay with this?”

“I think,” I say evenly, “that you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. In time, you’ll see that this life doesn’t have to be as miserable as you’re determined to make it.”

She stares at me for a long moment, her jaw tightening before she looks away again. “You don’t get it,” she mutters.

“No,” I agree. “I’m willing to try.”

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