Page 25 of Bratva Baby

But I know that’s impossible. Even if this had nothing to do with my father and the Bratva, we’re still two different people, bound by a marriage neither of us wanted.

I’m not his. Not really. And he isn’t mine. When the sun comes up, the reality of that will set in again. But for now, I let myself enjoy the comfort of his body.

My thoughts turn to Cecily and my father. Maybe Grigor will be more willing to talk now that we’ve crossed this line. I can only hope so, because the consequences of failure aren’t something I’m willing to consider.

Chapter 11 - Seraphina

I wake up feeling like I could devour half the kitchen. My stomach rumbles in a way that startles me out of the last dregs of sleep, and I stretch beneath the covers, wondering where Grigor is. The space beside me is empty, and the sheets are cool to the touch. Something about that emptiness tugs at my thoughts, reminding me of last night. Heat flutters through me at the memory of how his body felt against mine, but I’m quick to shake it off.

Catching feelings for my husband is a terrible idea, given the circumstances.

I slide out of bed, and my bare feet sink into the plush rug. One of his shirts drapes across the armchair in the corner, and I tug it on rather than trekking down the hall for my own clothes. The fabric is too big, and it hangs almost to my knees. As I inhale the faint trace of his scent clinging to it, an odd comfort that makes me roll my eyes at myself.

Trying to ignore the flush on my cheeks, I pad over to his dresser. It’s left half-open, maybe in a hurry. Curiosity gnaws at me, and I find myself peering inside. Most of it is a jumble of folded clothes, but near the back, I catch a glimpse of a small photo with worn edges. I slip it out carefully, blinking at the image of a woman with bright eyes and a dazzling smile.

Jealousy prickles at me before I can tamp it down. She’s gorgeous, with dark hair that falls in loose waves around her shoulders. I stare at her features, trying to figure out who she might be. Maybe she’s the reason Grigor didn’t push me further that first night. Maybe he’s already in love. A sour taste fills my mouth at the thought.

“What am I doing?” I mutter to myself. After sliding the photo back where I found it, I close the drawer. I don’t want to feel this way—like I’m already competing with someone who might hold his heart.

I push the feeling down and decide to head downstairs. My hunger returns with a vengeance, and if Grigor’s busy elsewhere, I can make something for myself. I smooth the shirt, ignoring that it rides up enough to reveal my thighs. If anyone stares, too bad. I’m the lady of the house, for better or worse.

The hallway is quiet. I make my way to the kitchen, inhaling the scent of coffee and something cooking. That alone triggers another wave of hunger, and I quicken my pace, only to stop short at the threshold. Grigor is standing by the stove, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of lounge pants with a spatula in hand as he stirs something in a pan.

He turns when he hears me, lifting his eyebrows. “Morning.”

I swallow, caught off-guard by the domestic scene. “Hi,” I mumble. My gaze shifts to the pan, then to the countertop where a cutting board is covered with chopped vegetables. “You’re… cooking.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “You say that like it’s the most shocking thing you’ve seen.”

I can’t help a small huff of laughter. “I guess I didn’t expect it.” I wander closer, drawn by the aroma. Whatever he’s making smells divine.

He gestures at the table. “Sit. This will be ready soon.”

I glance at the utensils and plates he’s set out. The tension from last night lingers in the air between us, but I’m too hungry to argue. I slip into one of the chairs, noticing how he eyes mein his shirt. The look he gives me sends a warm flush across my skin, reminding me of exactly what happened not too long ago.

My gaze drifts to the window, letting me compose myself. “You’re up early,” I remark. “Could’ve woken me.”

He shrugs before turning back to the stove. “Didn’t want to.”

I’m not sure how to interpret that, so I keep quiet. A minute later, he brings over two plates of scrambled eggs mixed with vegetables, plus a side of crispy potatoes. My mouth waters at the sight. He sets them down, grabs a pot of coffee, and pours me a mug without a word.

I curl my fingers around the warm ceramic, momentarily unsettled by the normalcy of it all. “Thanks,” I offer, trying not to sound flustered. The moment feels intimate, in a subtle way that ties my tongue.

He sits across from me and digs into his own plate. The flavors burst on my tongue—seasonings, herbs, the fresh crunch of peppers. I can’t stifle the moan that slips out. “It’s good,” I mumble around another mouthful.

“You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I am,” I admit. “The only meals we’ve shared together so far were prepared by your private chef. Don’t get cocky, though. One decent meal won’t erase the fact that you nearly shot me last night.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I told you, you shouldn’t have snuck up on me. Especially in that manner.”

Annoyance stirs in my gut, but I push it aside. “Fair point,” I concede. “Still, I’m grateful you didn’t pull the trigger.”

A shadow passes across his features, but he shrugs it off. “I’d rather not kill my wife,” he says, so matter-of-fact it sends a shiver down my spine.

I change the subject before we can spiral into hostility. “Earlier, I was in your room looking for a shirt. I found… a photo.”

He tenses, and his gaze goes cold. “You were snooping?”

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