Page 21 of Bratva Baby

She glances at my shirt, gawking at the dark stains before she averts her gaze. “Your wife… She’s in the garden, Sir.”

That’s surprising. After last night’s fiasco at dinner, I assumed she’d hole up in her room again. “She is?”

“Yes,” the housekeeper confirms. “She asked for a watering can. Something about wanting to help with the plants. She’s been out there a while.”

I wave the housekeeper off. “Thanks.” She scurries inside, and I’m left standing in the driveway, debating whether to freshen up first or go to her. Curiosity nudges me toward the garden.

I walk around the side of the estate, following the path that leads to a cluster of neatly trimmed hedges and vibrant flowers. I half expect to find her scowling or plotting some new way to defy me. Instead, I stop short when I see her kneeling near a patch of blossoms with a watering can in hand.

She’s wearing a simple purple sundress, and her midnight hair is pinned back. There’s a softness about her posture that catches me off guard.

As I move closer, I notice she’s admiring a butterfly perched on one of the flowers. A faint smile curves her lips, like she’s briefly forgotten her fury. The image stirs something in my chest, a tug of guilt maybe, or longing.

I recall how she looked in my arms, panting and trembling on our wedding night. How quickly her defiance melted into raw desire. That memory hits me square in the gut, reminding me of her innocence that night—the tightness I felt around my fingers, the wet warmth that drove me insane. I know what a virgin feels like, and I’m certain she had never been touched like that before.

It took a measure of willpower I didn’t know I had to stop, to keep from taking her fully. A virgin, married off to me for an alliance. I’ve bedded plenty of women, but I’m not the type to claim a virgin by force. I won’t touch her unless she willingly spreads her legs. An odd sense of chivalry, I guess. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to break her spirit if she’s truly never known a man. I’d rather she come to me on her own accord, no matter how long that might take.

I clear my throat. She startles before glancing over her shoulder. For a moment, there’s no scowl, no immediate glint of anger in her eyes. She lowers the watering can and rises to her feet, brushing off her skirt.

“Grigor,” she greets me in a subdued tone.

It’s the first time she’s spoken my name without venom. “Hey.” I notice a subtle shift in her gaze when she spots the bloodstain on my shirt. It’s not massive, but it’s noticeable.

She bites her lip, hesitant. “Long day?”

I weigh my words. Normally, I’d give a dismissive grunt, but I’d rather not call back the spite if I can help it. Instead, I shrug and answer, “Yeah.”

Her attention drifts to the crimson blot before she sets the watering can aside. “That’s… Is that…?”

I follow her line of sight. “Nothing you need to worry about,” The last thing I want is to share details of my interrogation, especially since I barely trust her. She’s my wife, but that means nothing yet.

She steps forward, drawing her brows together in either concern or revulsion. Maybe both. “You’re bleeding?”

I shake my head. “Not my blood.”

“Oh.” The silence stretches between us. The butterfly that held her attention earlier flutters off, leaving only the faint chirp of insects. She doesn’t press, and I’m oddly grateful.

She exhales before looking again at the flowers. “I figured these needed some care. Your gardeners do their job, but I like tending to them myself.” Her tone is almost… gentle.

I tilt my head, studying her features. “You’re… calmer tonight,” I remark, half expecting a snide retort.

She lifts a shoulder. “I’m exhausted, Grigor. I’ve spent the day replaying everything that’s happened. I can’t be angry every minute.” A hint of vulnerability edges her words, and it sinks under my skin.

A breeze lifts strands of her hair, and she tucks them behind her ear as her eyes slide away from my gaze. My mind drifts back to the memory of her arching under my touch, how she clenched around my fingers, how she tasted of need and frustration. If I let that memory linger, I’ll be tempted to drag her into the nearest corner and show her exactly how I can makeher come apart again. But I rein it in. She’s had enough forced contact from me lately.

Trying to redirect my thoughts, I gesture at the watering can. “So… you like gardening?”

She pauses, as if uncertain how to respond. “I guess. It’s relaxing.” Then she crosses her arms, as if protecting that small revelation. Her eyes drift down to my shirt again. “Did something happen out there? You’ve got blood. That can’t be good.”

“I handle a lot of things. Some of them get messy. That’s my job.”

She studies me, probably weighing whether to push for details. Her posture stiffens, like she remembers we’re not exactly confidants. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

I keep my face impassive. “No.”

Disappointment crosses her features. “Fine. I don’t really care anyway.” A lie, perhaps. But I don’t call her out on it. She turns back to the flowers, picking up the watering can once more. The conversation seems over, but a part of me wants it to continue.

I cast a quick glance toward the mansion. My day was long and brutal, and I know I should shower, change clothes, and maybe regroup with my brothers. Yet something about Seraphina’s quiet presence in this garden holds me there. I can’t recall the last time she wasn’t snapping at me.

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