Page 76 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“You’re starving,” he says abruptly, straightening up.

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. “What?”

“Dinner,” he clarifies, already moving toward the door. “It’s late, and you need to eat.”

He’s not wrong. The pangs of hunger have been gnawing at me for a while, but I was too absorbed in finishing the nursery to pay attention.

“Dinner sounds amazing,” I admit, standing slowly.

“Come on,” he says, holding the door open for me.

I follow him out into the hallway, the soft light of the nursery spilling out behind us. But just as I step past him, Makar’s hand catches mine, stopping me mid-step.

“Hannah.”

The way he says my name makes me turn immediately, my gaze locking with his. His expression is serious, his jaw tight as though he’s wrestling with something difficult to say.

“When I said ‘anything for you,’” he begins, his voice low and measured, “I meant it.”

I swallow hard, the intensity of his tone catching me off guard. “I know, Makar.”

“No,” he says firmly, his hand tightening around mine. “I don’t think you do. I haven’t always… been kind to you.”

I shake my head, opening my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.

“Let me finish,” he says, his voice softening. “I haven’t been kind, and I’ve made choices that hurt you. I need you to know that Idowant you to be happy—with me. I want us to build something real. For you, for the baby… for us.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice makes my chest tighten, and I reach up, placing a hand on his cheek. “Makar,” I say softly, “I believe you, and I want that too.”

He leans into my touch slightly, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he straightens up, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at his lips.

“Good,” he says simply, his voice steadier now.

“Good,” I echo, smiling back at him.

He presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering just long enough to make my heart race. Then he steps back, his hand still resting lightly on my waist as he guides me toward the stairs.

***

In the kitchen, Makar moves with surprising ease, pulling out ingredients from the fridge while I sit at the counter, watching him.

“Do you even know how to cook anything that isn’t breakfast?” I ask, grinning as he starts chopping vegetables with precise, practiced movements.

“I don’t always rely on chefs and takeout,” he replies, glancing at me with an amused glint in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” I tease, propping my chin on my hand.

He shakes his head, muttering something in Russian under his breath, but there’s a faint smile on his lips as he continues working.

The smell of garlic and onions fills the air, and my stomach growls loudly enough to make him pause.

“Impatient,” he says, smiling.

“Starving,” I correct, giving him a pointed look.

“Almost done,” he promises, setting a pan on the stove.

True to his word, it doesn’t take long before he sets a plate of steaming pasta in front of me. I take a bite, closing my eyes as the rich flavors hit my tongue.

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