Page 22 of Bratva Baby

I step beside her, studying the array of blossoms. Their petals glow under the estate’s exterior lights. She notices my proximity but doesn’t move away. That’s progress, I suppose. My chest tightens with a confusing mix of relief and desire, recalling what I discovered about her innocence. If she knew how muchit affected me—that knowledge of her being a virgin—she might use it against me or throw it in my face. I keep it buried, a secret plan to wait until she’s ready to give herself willingly. Because, make no mistake, I intend to claim every inch of her, but on my terms and hers.

She finishes watering, then sets the can on a low stone ledge. “I’m done.” Her voice is small, tired.

I clear my throat. “You should go inside. It’s late.”

She nods, not protesting for once. As we walk back, the distance between us is barely an arm’s length, but it might as well be a canyon. I want to extend a hand, but I resist. She’d probably recoil.

We reach a side entrance, and she opens the door, stepping in. I follow with tension prickling at the base of my neck. She stops in the corridor, turning to face me. “Look… about dinner last night—”

A pang of guilt shoots through me, recalling how I slung her over my shoulder. “It was necessary.”

Her eyes blaze for a second. “Necessary to degrade me in front of your family?”

I suppress a wince. “You refused to come down. I had no choice. My brothers needed to meet you. They won’t respect a wife who hides away.”

She lifts her chin. “They wouldn’t respect a woman, period, from what I’ve seen.”

I open my mouth to argue but realize she’s not wrong, at least about some of them. “They respect strength. And you showed plenty by talking back to me. They noticed.”

She snorts. “Glad to know my attitude is an asset to someone.” The comment drips sarcasm, but it lacks the lethaledge I’ve grown accustomed to. It feels more like a momentary truce.

Neither of us speaks for a beat. Her gaze flicks to the red stains on my shirt again, and for an instant, I see the worry in her eyes. She wants to ask again. I can almost hear the question forming on her lips. But she doesn’t voice it. Instead, she exhales and looks away.

“I’m heading to shower.”

She brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. “Yeah. Okay.”

I nod and step around her, heading toward the stairs. My pulse thuds at the back of my skull as an odd sense of regret nags at me. I suspect she might have more to say, but she’s letting it go, probably because she doesn’t trust me any more than I trust her.

As I climb the steps, I replay the day’s events in my mind: the torture session, the meager scraps of info about Davide, and the man’s death before I could squeeze out any real information that might lead us to the true mastermind behind Pavel’s murder. Then I recall the sight of Seraphina kneeling in the garden, quietly caring for flowers that belong to a household she claims to despise. The dissonance unsettles me.

She hates me, hates our arrangement, yet she waters flowers in my garden.

At the top of the stairs, I glance back to see if she followed, but she’s gone, probably off to her room. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if she’s replaying last night’s heat in her head as much as I am. The memory of her gasping on my fingers, soaking them, her body so tight—it sends a rush of desire through me. But I lock it down. I vow not to touch her again until she’s ready. It might take weeks or months or never.

But it doesn’t matter. Not even in the slightest. I should focus on bigger threats like Davide and the Rossis, not on seducing my unwilling wife.

Chapter 10 - Seraphina

I jolt awake when my phone buzzes on the nightstand, nearly sending my heart into my throat. My first thought is that it’s Grigor, maybe demanding I present myself somewhere to put on a wifey-performance or else he’ll come and drag me there again. But the second I pick up the phone, I see my father’s name glaring at me. A chill spreads through my limbs, and I’d love nothing more than to fling this device across the room.

Seraphina. I’m waiting. Where’s the intel?

A single, curt line of text that reeks of arrogance. It hasn’t even occurred to the man to check on his newlywed daughter’s well-being or to ask how her honeymoon has been. Not that I was granted one of those. No, the meaning is clear: I owe him secrets about the Barkovs, about Grigor, or he’ll make good on his threat to use Cecily in some twisted arrangement the way he used me.

I stare at the screen, blinking through the sleepy haze. What does he expect me to do? March up to Grigor and ask him to reveal his darkest business dealings? I’ve seen only glimpses of what he does in a single day—returning home with blood on his shirt, vanishing for hours to handle Bratva matters—but I have no clue how to spin that into a decent report for Father. My husband has no reason to trust me yet, and building that kind of rapport, especially with someone I despise so much, takes time. But I agreed to my father’s demands to protect Cecily. If I want to look out for my sister, I have to find a way to get the old bastard something.

The phone buzzes again with another message:Remember our deal, or your sister pays.

A spike of anger flares in my chest, mingling with guilt and worry. My father knows exactly how to twist my arm. Cecily is the only reason I haven’t told him to shove his demands somewhere vile. If I don’t deliver some shred of intel soon, he’ll make her life hell.

I shove the blankets aside and pace the bedroom floor, trying to think this through. I’m stuck between two men, neither of whom I trust completely. My father, who sold me off like livestock, and my husband, who’s done nothing but prove how dominating he can be—though, ironically, he’s also shown glimpses of restraint. That night in his bed, I expected him to take everything. But he stopped. It left me rattled and more confused than ever.

Still, Father’s message pounds at my brain: I’m waiting. A wave of desperation rolls over me. He’s not going to let this rest, and I have no illusions about how ruthless he can be when he wants something. If he suspects I’m stalling, he won’t hesitate to threaten Cecily more directly.

The only way to gain real information is to earn Grigor’s trust. Or at least get closer to him. And if I’ve learned anything since we wed, it’s that Grigor Barkov’s confidence comes from the reactions he can illicit from people. Like that night—when his fingers drove me insane and left me trembling and wanting. That memory sends heat blooming in my core. I loathe how easily he stripped away my defenses, how a part of me craves feeling his hands on me again.

I swallow hard, wrestling with the idea that’s forming in my mind. If I’m going to get him to open up, I might need to stroke his ego a bit. Tempt him. Let him believe I’m finally ready to submit or at least share his bed willingly. The thought knots my stomach with a whole host of emotions I don’t have time to unpack right now.

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