Page 37 of Bratva Baby

For the first time in years, I feel something I can only describe as jealousy. It’s foreign, unwelcome, but undeniable. Jealousy isn’t an emotion I’ve allowed myself before. I don’t share, and I don’t envy. And yet, watching Seraphina stand there with this man who clearly wants her—my wife—makes me want to burn the world down.

“Grigor,” a familiar voice purrs beside me.

I don’t need to look to know it’s Emma. She presses herself closer, too close, and her perfectly manicured nails ghost over my arm.

“You’re far too tense for a party,” she complains. “Let me guess. You’re stewing because of her.”

Her. Seraphina. My wife.

I turn my head just enough to meet Emma’s too-bright smile. Her bright red lipstick has been perfectly applied, andher lips are plump and parted, as though inviting a kiss. I feel nothing but disdain.

“Watch your mouth, Emma,” I warn.

She scoffs, pretending to pout. “You used to like my mouth.”

“Not anymore.”

She laughs, low and patronizing. “I don’t see why you’re so hung up on her. She’s not that pretty, and her family is a mess. What are you doing with a girl like that, anyway? She’s hardly wife material. You could have anyone. Why not someone who actually fits your style? Someone who wouldn’t leave you brooding from across the room while she entertains other men.”

Something snaps. I turn to face her, inching closer, dropping my voice so only she can hear me. “Speak about my wife like that again, and I’ll rip your tongue out myself. Are we clear?”

Emma’s eyes widen before she masks the reaction with a sly smirk. “Always so dramatic.” She steps back, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Have it your way, Grigor. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. A girl like that will never keep you satisfied.”

I watch her slink away, swishing her hips in a way that’s designed to catch the attention of anyone looking. I couldn’t care less about her theatrics. My focus is locked on Seraphina and the bastard who has no business standing so close to her.

The tension ratchets higher when he lifts a hand and brushes her hair back, grazing his fingers across her cheek as he does. That’s it.

I drain the last of the wine, set the glass down on a nearby table, and start moving. If he wants a show, then he’s going to get one.

Seraphina sees me first. She sucks in an audible gasp, and she reaches out for me the second I’m close enough like she’s trying to restrain me without making it obvious. The man turns when he notices her shift in focus, and his smug grin falters the moment he catches sight of me.

“Grigor,” Seraphina greets with a little too much excitement in her tone.

I stop beside her and slide my arm around her waist, pulling her against me. The touch is possessive, and I feel her tense for a moment before she relaxes, fitting her body against mine like it belongs there. Good. It does.

“And who’s this?” I ask, nodding toward the creep.

“Marco,” he offers as his smile slides back into place. “An old family friend.”

“Friend?” I repeat.

“We grew up together,” Seraphina explains.

“Well, we did a little more than that, didn’t we?” Marco teases with a chuckle that makes me want to punch him in the throat. If I do a good enough job on that windpipe, he’ll never laugh again. “It’s been years since I’ve seen her. Just catching up.”

“You’ve caught up enough,” I declare.

Marco blinks and shuffles back a step. “Of course. I didn’t mean to—”

I cut him off with a pointed look. “You didn’t mean to what?”

He stammers, stepping back some more as he raises his hands. “No offense intended, Barkov.”

“Good.”

He lingers for a moment like he’s considering pushing his luck, but one more glance at me seems to kill the idea. With a stiff nod, he mutters something about mingling and disappears into the crowd.

The second he’s out of sight, Seraphina twists to face me. Her lips twitch, and before I can say anything, she laughs.

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