Page 63 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
I still remembered the way my breath caught.
They undressed each other slowly, reverently. No rush. Just…love. Fingers trailed down spines, and lips explored soft skin, the light low and golden. It was something deeper than just sex. Something sacred. He held her like she was fragile and strong at once, and she looked at him like he’d hung the stars.
And there I was—sixteen, curled up beneath my thin blanket, cheeks burning, heart fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage.
Wondering, “Will anyone ever look at me like that?”
I imagined it then, so vividly—me, in a wedding dress that shimmered like moonlight, hand in hand with someone whose eyes saw only me in a crowded world. My heart would be swollen with love, my body trembling with nervous excitement. And on our wedding night….
We’d be in some quiet, hidden place, tucked away from the world. Just us. I’d reach for him and not be afraid. I’d feel his breath against my skin and know I was safe, cherished. We’d laugh and kiss, and I’d finally know what it meant to give yourself completely, not just in body, but in soul.
I fell asleep that night with a soft ache in my chest—this sweet, longing ache.
I wanted that kind of love.
Not the perfect kind, but the real kind. The kind that kissed your tears, that held you in the dark, that undressed you slowly, not just for pleasure, but out of reverence.
I didn’t know if I’d ever have it.
But God, did I dream.
***
Later that night, while Damien took a shower upstairs in the bedroom, I asked Winter to take the rest of the night off and went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee.
It was not the typical behavior of a couple on a honeymoon night, I knew. But that was what happened when said couple didn’t have a relationship.
I needed the space to think and come to terms with the fact that this was now my life. The only problem was that I wasn’t sure how to start living it. Everywhere I went, at every corner I passed, I had flashes of happy moments with my best friend.
The times when she had shown me around the house, taken me to her room, shown me the pool, and everything else. Life had been so simple back then. I didn’t have to reevaluate or reflect too often.
Like now, as my heart and mind waged a war inside.
Heavens knew I wanted to keep wallowing in guilt—to be fair, a part of me did—but the other part had chosen to wear a see-through white lacy nightdressjust becauseit was my honeymoon night, and I wanted to impress my husband.
I felt sick and tingly at the same time. Stupid and helpless, all at once. Super scared of this new reality of mine, and hopeful for the future that it promised.
Every time I remembered that Nana and Jasper wouldn’t suffer anymore, I drew strength.
I might be clueless on how to navigate through this new life, but I was a wife and a soon-to-be mother. I knew better thananyone else that I had to start fitting myself into those roles, whether I liked it or not.
I stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, leaning against the counter, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug I hadn’t even taken a sip from yet. The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, and I was about to drink from my mug until I felt the warmth behind me.
He didn’t make a sound. Just appeared, smelling like soap and musk.
His presence enveloped me, and before I could turn, I felt his strong arms snake around my waist. I paused, breath caught between my ribs as his chest pressed against my back, the heat of him seeping into me and chasing away the evening chill.
“What newlywed wife spends her honeymoon night in the kitchen, drinking coffee?” he whispered, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, brushing my ear.
A flutter erupted in my chest, and a shiver rippled down my spine.
“I….” I cleared my throat, trying to find my voice, which was buried under the heat of the moment. “I needed space to think. Thinking helps me.”
“You’re mine now, Elena Yezhov. The only space you take from me is the one I give to you. Does that make sense?”
I shook my head, and his rough chuckle on my skin forced a rise of goosebumps.
His firm lips grazed the curve of my neck, and I leaned back against him without meaning to. It was instinct. Or maybe a growing addiction to the scent of him, which wrapped itself around me more than his arms ever could.
