Page 101 of Bratva's Intern

The table was set. Actual china—my good set, only used for dinner parties, by the look of it. Candles burned low in the holders, the wax dripping into half-formed puddles. Silverware aligned with precision. A single wine glass still held a half-inch of red.

He’d been waiting.

And I’d been hours late.

My throat tightened as I followed the soft light to the living room.

Wren was curled up on the couch, dead asleep, one arm draped over a throw pillow. His lips were parted, his breath coming in a soft snore that made my chest ache. A blanket trailed on the floor, and the silk wrap he wore had shifted up his thigh, exposing slivers of lace and black mesh beneath.

Jesus.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and let out a low groan. How had I missed this?

He’d gotten ready for me. Prepared all this. Waited.

And I’d walked through gunfire in another city to make it home in time, only to be too late.

I set the water down and crossed the room. Stood over him for a moment, just watching.

I slipped one arm under his thighs and the other around his back. He stirred when I lifted him.

“Max?” he murmured, half-asleep, head lolling against my shoulder.

“I’m here,” I said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice slurred. “I fell asleep.”

My throat tightened again. He was apologizing tome.

“I should be the one saying that,” I murmured as I started up the stairs.

He didn’t reply, already drifting off again.

I carried him into the bedroom and gently laid him down on the bed. When I moved the blanket, he made a sleepy noise of protest, so I tucked it around him again.

“I’m going to shower.” I brushed his hair off his forehead. “Then I’ll come to bed.”

He didn’t respond, but his fingers found mine beneath the covers and squeezed. Just once.

I swallowed hard and left him to take that shower. I refused to sleep with him, with the stench of the outdoor world of greed still clinging to me.

The hot water stung where it hit the scrape on my arm, but I ignored it. My mind was still in the living room. At the dinner table. On Wren’s face.

I’d been gone too long.

When I returned to the bedroom, a single lamp cast the room in soft amber. Wren had shifted onto his side, hugging the pillow like it might disappear if he let go.

I slid under the covers beside him.

He stirred. Shifted toward me. And without a word, curled into my chest like he belonged there.

I wrapped an arm around his waist and held him close, breathing in the scent of his skin and the faint remnants of whatever cologne he’d worn just for me.

“Max…”

“Hmm?”

“How was your trip?”

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