Page 28 of Forced Prisoner By the Bratva

The car door gave a quiet click and opened, my foot resting on the pavement. I stepped out of the sleek black Porsche, shut the door behind me, and headed into the building.

With a briefcase in my hand, my shoes clicked on the polished marble floor as I made my way through the quiet foyer, its dim lights shrouding my form.

The guards were at their posts, and the rest of the staff had gone to bed. The place was silent, like a graveyard, as it always was at this time of night. The rhythmic sound of clicking shoes echoed off the high walls as I strode over to the living room.

The lights were out except for the moon's glow filtering through the windows, the curtains dancing in the cool night air. I lowered my head, my fingers rubbing my tired eyes.

I’d had a long day, and my entire body ached. It felt like I’d been run over by a fucking truck. But pain and I had come to a mutual understanding many years ago. All I needed was some rest—a couple of hours of sleep—and I'd be as good as new.

As I headed upstairs, barely on the second step, something strange caught my attention: an anomaly. The kitchen light was turned on, and I could hear the clinking of cutlery coming from inside.

A sweet aroma wafted through the air, teasing my senses. It was rich and savory with a hint of sweetness. I couldn't quite place it, but it was tantalizing. The scent felt comforting, like a warm hug on a chilly night.

Weird. No one usually was awake by this time, let alone in the kitchen, cooking.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I felt my stomach growl with anticipation as I wondered what was being cooked and, most importantly, who was doing the cooking.

I changed course and headed to the kitchen, my movement slow and deliberate, my footsteps making no sound.

There she was, standing by the counter, her back to me, completely absorbed in her task. Her fingers, a blur of motion, moved with quiet confidence as she worked.

Her dark hair was tied in a loose knot, and the soft, worn fabric of her pajamas draped over her curves, giving her an endearing, sleepy charm.

My lips curled into a smile as I leaned against the door frame, a hint of amusement flashing in my gaze. I watched her body move to the rhythm of the gentle hum of a tune that drifted from her lips.

This was a beautiful sight to behold, and I couldn't stop myself from smiling. I'd never seen her this blissful, so relaxed and carefree. She had no idea I was watching her, and I intended to keep it that way. I was loving the show, and she was crushing the moves.

Someone was in a good mood tonight—how lovely!

It was as if my wife had seamlessly slipped into this moment and made it her own. If I didn't know better, I'd think that she had no worries at all and there was nothing to bother her. She looked so at peace…so domestic.

This wasn't something I saw every day, so I'd take my time to enjoy the soothing scene unfolding before me.

She turned around to grab a plate from the kitchen island, and that was when she saw me. Her spirit seemed to jump out of her body for a second. “Oh, my God!” She froze in her tracks, her eyes widening in shock at my sudden appearance.

I watched her hand fly to her chest as if to prevent her heart from bursting from her ribcage. Her lips pursed, and she held up a cautioning finger in the air, her head slightly tilting to the side. “Don't ever do that again,” she warned, teasing.

My grin broadened, and I strolled into the kitchen, swinging my briefcase to the countertop with a fluid motion. “Well, don't stop onmyaccount,” I said softly, referring to her previous performance.

A brief scowl crossed her face as she said, her voice flat, “You’re lucky I didn't have a knife. Next time, announce yourself. I don't want to have to explain to the police why I killed you.”

My brows arched, and a chuckle escaped my lips. “How are you gonna do that when you're scared half to death?” I asked, my eyes never leaving hers.

She stared at me in silence, a suppressed smile twitching at the corner of her lips. With one hand on the counter and the other on her waist, she tilted her head to the side, a disbelieving look etched on her face.

I could sense the witty response lingering on the tip of her tongue, but after a moment of considering her retort, she just let out a sigh and switched the subject. “What’re you doing here anyway? Aren't you supposed to be asleep or something?” She returned to her cooking.

My eyes crinkled at the corners. I appreciated the irony of her question. “I could ask you the same thing,” I said, taking a seat on a chair at the kitchen island.

“I'm making something to eat,” she replied without turning to look at me, her fingers deftly moving here and there.

The more ingredients she added, the richer the aroma that made my mouth water.

“I didn't know you cooked,” I said, my voice laced with a hint of amusement, especially because her food smelled so good.

“You don't know many things about me,” she replied, her tone cool and casual. She kept her attention fixed on the meal.

“True,” I mumbled under my breath, reclining into the wooden chair. “So, what're you making?” I indulged her, enjoying the sight of her hands moving with expert precision.

---