Page 54 of Used Bratva Bride

He pulls the sheets over us, his body still warm beside mine, and for the first time, I don’t think about escaping.

Chapter Fourteen - Mikhail

I wake to the scent of something warm, something rich. It seeps into my senses before I even open my eyes, stirring me from sleep with a lazy awareness that is unusual for me.

Food. My eyes snap open.

I don’t need to check the time to know it’s later than I usually wake. The morning light filters through the heavy curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. My muscles are tight, my body weighted with the remnants of the previous night—of exhaustion, of whiskey, of her.

Julie. I run a hand down my face, exhaling slowly.

Last night was just sex, it doesn’t have to mean anything… but it does. She’s affecting me more than she should, and I hate it.

I push away the thought and swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching my arms before standing. My movements are slow but deliberate as I make my way to the en suite, splashing cold water onto my face before dressing.

The scent of food only grows stronger as I step into the hallway.

I don’t need to ask who’s responsible.

By the time I reach the kitchen, I find her standing at the stove, her back to me, hair loosely pulled over one shoulder as she focuses on whatever it is she’s making.

A maid stands near the counter, watching her carefully, hands clasped in front of her like she’s preparing to intervene if necessary.

Julie doesn’t acknowledge me at first.

She’s too focused, too lost in her own world, whisking eggs with a quiet kind of determination that has nothing to do with pleasing me.

I lean against the doorway, watching. She moves differently here, without the stiff tension she usually carries.

This isn’t a performance. This is something real.

Finally, the maid speaks, her voice careful but insistent. “It’s tradition,” she says. “For the wife to cook breakfast for her husband on the first morning after the wedding.”

Julie hesitates. She stiffens just slightly, like she forgot for a moment where she is, who she’s doing this for.

Then, after a brief pause, she exhales and keeps going. Not for me. For herself.

Interesting.

I smirk as I step forward, watching as she sets the table. A breakfast quiche sits in the center, golden and warm, the scent tempting even to me.

I slide into my usual chair, stretching my arms over the back of it as I watch her carefully.

She avoids looking at me, but I don’t let that slide.

“So,” I say, my voice low and amused, “you’re being a good wife now?”

Julie finally meets my gaze, her blue eyes sharp, stubborn. “I’m not doing this for you,” she states, chin lifted slightly. “I enjoy cooking.”

Bold. My smirk widens.

I pick up my fork, cutting a piece of the quiche, tasting it. It’s good. Too good. Something about that only makes me more curious.

I take another bite, chewing slowly, watching Julie from the corner of my eye. She’s trying to act indifferent, keeping her posture stiff, her arms crossed like she couldn’t care less whether I enjoy the meal or not.

I can see through it. The slight tension in her jaw. The way her fingers twitch against the edge of the counter. She’s waiting.

I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I set my fork down, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and murmur, “Not too bad.”

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