Page 26 of Chased & Bred by the BRATVA
Nikolai hums. “Staff live in the south wing. She’s new.”
“She’s sweet,” I murmur, still watching her.
He grunts. “She’s being watched.”
I look up at him sharply. “By you?”
“No.” A pause. “Mikhail.”
I blink. “Does she know that?”
Another grunt. Which, in Nikolai-speak, is probably a yes.
He reaches past me, stealing another bite of pasta, then tugs me closer again, his hand slipping under the hem of the shirt.
“Can’t you go five minutes?” I whisper.
“No,” he says, mouth brushing my ear. “You’re glowing. You taste like moonlight and bloodlust. What do you want from me?”
I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to melt right into him.
But I settle for sharing pasta while sitting on his knee.
Nikolai
She twirls pasta onto her fork like she’s done it a hundred times in this kitchen. Like the weight of what happened yesterday isn’t clinging to the walls like steam. Sarah hums softly from the pantry, counting and shuffling food around. Rachel looks deep in thought, her golden eyes sharp and focussed. Her brow creasing every so often with whatever she is thinking.
She doesn’t ask me what I did.
And I don’t volunteer it.
But when she finally sets her fork down and looks up at me, I can tell she’s ready to hear it.
“I left them where they picked you up,” I say simply.
Her mouth parts, but she doesn’t speak. I watch her breathe through it, watch the tension flicker in her shoulders and then ease.
“Still chained,” I add. “Beaten, but breathing. The press will get wind of it by morning. They’ll spin it however they want, but someone will look into it. Find what they were doing. Then make it disappear.”
She nods once. Slow. “Will they talk?”
“Not much. A little. Just enough.”
Sarah returns and gently places the clipboard in a drawer before giving us space. She doesn’t say anything. Probably been told not to. She walks out with her head bowed low.
I turn back to Rachel. “Roman already handled the cleanup.”
Rachel finishes the last bite of her meal and leans back in her chair, fingers curled around a water glass. Her eyes are distant now, thoughtful, but not afraid.
“Do you think they’ll tell anyone about me?” she asks.
“No.” I reach over and lay my hand over hers. “They’ll be too busy thinking about what’s coming next.”
She nods again. “Good.”
We fall into silence after that. Not uncomfortable. Just tired. Saturated. She’s spent the day trying to find her footing again, and I’ve spent it trying not to imagine what she’d look like in a wedding dress. I don’t tell her that, of course. Not yet.
But the thought’s already rooted itself.
