Page 187 of Bratva's Vow
“Today’s my birthday,” I reminded him through giggles. “You’re supposed to be nice to me.”
Another bark.
This was Jellybean’s version of being nice. He sprang off, his paws making a soft thud as he hit the floor and prancedaround the room, each bound full of joy at my awakening. Sighing, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
“Fine, I’m up.” I ruffled his fur as I stretched out. “Let me use the toilet. Then we can go find our master.”
He perked up atmaster, tail wagging harder. I should probably stop referring to Maxim as that. It was ridiculous how quickly Jellybean responded to that word, like he hadn’t spent the last few months being thoroughly spoiled by said master. Like he wasn’t allowed up on couches and beds and Maxim’s lap, despite all his talk of discipline and training. Jellybean had Maxim wrapped around his curly little paw. Just like me.
With a mock salute to Jellybean, who kept up his excited prancing, I ambled into the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror was as disheveled as expected after being roused by the most enthusiastic alarm clock in existence. Bed hair, rumpled pajamas, and one very prominent slobber patch on my cheek courtesy of Jellybean.
Gross.
As I stepped out of the bathroom minutes later, Jellybean was waiting patiently by the door, his tail wagging a steady rhythm against the floor. How he managed to contain his boundless energy for those few moments was beyond me.
“All right, furball. Let’s find Daddy.”
I padded through the house, dog at my heels, sun already pouring gold across the kitchen floor. The air smelled like roasted garlic and something warm and buttery and faintly sweet. My stomach gave an appreciative growl.
Maxim Morozov, Bratva Pakhan, alleged monster, stood barefoot at the stove in a soft gray T-shirt, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, a spatula in one hand and a little smudge of flour on his jaw. He was plating pancakes with the kind of concentration most people reserved for defusing bombs.
Jellybean barked once and trotted over, circling Maxim’s feet, then settling at the corner of the kitchen mat like he was claiming his post.
Maxim didn’t even look up. “Good morning, birthday boy,” he said, voice quiet but warm. “I don’t know why I try to surprise you with breakfast in bed anymore. You always ruin it.”
I smiled, watching him for a second longer. Just… taking him in. The man who ran a criminal empire with an iron fist now kept a recipe journal and fretted over whether I was drinking enough electrolytes. The same man who’d held me together when I was too afraid to eat, who’d sat beside me while I cried over bland hospital food, who’d researched every trace mineral and detox protocol like his life depended on it.
He’d learned to cook for me. These days, if he didn’t prepare it himself, the food came from a tiny roster of vetted chefs who probably feared for their lives if they oversalted the potatoes. He’d gotten that careful. That controlling. That loving.
And honestly? I adored it.
One thing I’d never prepared for was the way being poisoned would affect my eating habits. For a while, I’d been terrified of eating in public. I wouldn’t eat from anyone, including our friends. Thankfully, they hadn’t been offended. I’d just been too traumatized by the time I’d spent in the hospital, all because we let someone else prepare our meals.
So Maxim, the man who didn’t have a domestic bone in his body, learned to cook. Now every morning I woke up to the delicious aroma of pancakes or toast or something warm that was being prepared just for me.
I walked over and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, resting my head against his broad back.
“You can’t blame me this time.” I nuzzled his shoulder. “Jellybean woke me up. You left the door open.”
Maxim sighed. “It’s okay. Probably won’t work to have breakfast in bed anyway. He’d make a mess everywhere.”
“Smells amazing, though.”
“It’s lemon ricotta pancakes. With fresh blueberries. And real maple syrup, not that fake corn syrup stuff you tried to sneak into the cart last week.”
“Busted,” I muttered.
He flipped the last pancake onto the stack, then turned in my arms, brushing my hair back from my face. “Happy birthday, kroshka.”
I leaned into his touch, my voice soft. “Thank you.”
“You’re easy to love when you’re not being a menace,” he teased, but his eyes—those cold, brutal, beautiful eyes—looked at me like I was the best thing he’d ever done with his life.
We ate on the patio overlooking the pool of our new house, sun warming our skin, legs tangled beneath the small table. He fed me bites off his fork when I got too lazy to lift mine. I stole sips from his coffee, even though mine was the same. Jellybean jumped into the pool and ignored us while Maxim grumbled about that damn dog he was going to take to the pound one of these days because he didn’t listen.
“What do you want to do today?” Maxim asked.
I scrunched up my face. “You’re asking me that like you haven’t already decided.”
