Page 27 of Chased & Bred by the BRATVA
I clear our plates, load them into the dishwasher, and by the time I turn back, she’s standing at the sink, watching the last starts blink into view over the treeline.
“I don’t want to go back,” she says quietly.
My chest goes still.
“I should. I know I should.” She traces a line on the counter with her finger. “But thinking about it makes me feel... small. Like I’m stepping into someone else’s life. Someone who smiles when she’s supposed to. Who answers emails no one reads. Who lets her boss talk over her and thanks him for the opportunity.”
She doesn’t look at me, but her voice doesn’t shake.
“I don’t miss my friends. Not really. Not the way I thought I would. And I know that makes me sound like a terrible person—”
“No,” I interrupt. “It makes you sound like someone who finally stopped pretending.”
She exhales, the sound cracking just a little.
“Come with me,” I say.
She turns, eyebrows lifting. “What?”
“Come upstairs.”
Her hesitation is small, but I see it. Not fear. Uncertainty. This isn’t about sex. Not tonight. This is about something else. Aboutus.
When she follows, I keep her hand in mine the whole way. We pass the hall where Roman is quietly arguing with Aleksei and Mikhail about some logistics issue, but they don’t stop us. No one questions me when Rachel’s at my side.
They wouldn’t dare.
Back in my room, I don’t dim the lights. I don’t try to make it into something romantic. I just strip off my shirt and sit on the edge of the bed while she undresses slowly, peeling off the layers Clara gave her earlier. She hesitates for a moment, then climbs onto the mattress beside me and settles against my side.
I pull the covers over both of us.
We don’t speak for a long time. Her breathing slows. Her fingers trail mindless shapes across my chest, and I stare at the ceiling, the gears in my mind grinding in a way they haven’t for years.
I didn’t plan for this. I didn’twanta woman. At least not in the forever sense.
But Rachel isn’t just a woman. She’s a fucking shift in my foundation.
I think about what her life would look like if she stayed. Not just now, but in months. Years. Would she need a studio? Aspace to create, to breathe? I could build her anything. I think about her working beside Clara. About her laughing in the kitchen. About her waking up swollen and soft with my baby and pushing her feet into my lap at night.
I want her barefoot and glowing in every room of this house.
I want to see her in my chair, curled up with a book.
I want to buy her a ring.
I never wanted any of this.
Not until her.
She shifts beside me and I look down. She’s half-asleep, eyes closed but not quite dreaming. I stroke a hand down her back, slow and careful.
“I’m not sending you back,” I whisper.
She hums, a small sound of agreement.
“You belong here.”
She murmurs something I can’t quite hear, but it sounds likeokay.
