Page 22 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
I spoon soup into the bowls and then take a seat across from him. “One bowl of sodium, coming right up.”
He laughs. “Thanks for cooking. Sorry I passed out on you.”
I slurp down a mouthful. It’s not too bad, considering. “Sorry for drugging you. I swear I didn’t mean to, but like I said, I never went to med school. How’s your arm feeling?”
Timofey flexes his fingers like he’s testing the wound. The bandage is pinker than it was when I first wrapped it, and I’ll probably have to change it soon. “Much better, thanks to you.”
“Don’t thank me until we see how it heals. You’re probably going to have a nasty scar.”
“Think it’ll make me look cool?”
I snort. “I think you’re one scar short of people crossing the street when you walk past.”
He clutches his chest like I’ve wounded him. “Is that why the mothers hide their children?”
Under the table, I press my hand against my stomach. How many weeks has it been? How long before I start to show? When that time comes, I can’t be here with Timofey, or there will be too many questions.
“When do you think we can go back to the city?” I ask him, hoping he lets the sudden change of subject go.
He finishes his bowl of soup and refills it before answering. “It’ll be a while. Not until I know it’s safe.”
I groan inwardly and get up to wash my bowl. “Great. Trapped here in the middle of nowhere for who knows how long. I’m going to bed. You can sleep on the couch.”
He doesn’t protest. I shut the bedroom door behind me and find a big flannel shirt in one of the drawers, pulling it on for pajamas. It’s got to be one of his because it goes all the way down to my knees. The second my head hits the pillow, I’m asleep.
***
“So there’s Matvey, Diomid, Valery,” I say, ticking the names off on my fingers as I go, “Oleg and… Nikita?”
He’s at the counter making a pot of coffee from beans that have to be really, really stale at this point. “Got it. That’s the lot.”
“And you’re running everything right now? How can you manage that when we’re out here?”
I’ve been needling him about how we should probably head back to the city sooner rather than later ever since we got here. After three days alone in the woods with him, I’m completely losing my mind. This place is so small that avoiding him is nearly impossible, and he has this unnerving habit of walking around in just pants after he takes a shower. Now is one of those times. The sight of his naked, damp chest does unsettling things to my insides.
The coffee pot starts to burble behind him, filling the kitchen with the nutty scent of brewing coffee. We’ve got the windows thrown open to let in the afternoon breeze, and I can smell the vine that’s blooming on the porch, wafting its way in through the screen.
He taps his fingers on his phone, which is sitting on the countertop. “I can do a lot from here. And right here is where we need to be until we know more about those men who were after you.”
“But you wish you could be back in the city right now,” I guess, taking in the hard set of his jaw. “It stresses you out to be here.”
The pot beeps, and he pours a mug of coffee, offering it to me. Isn’t caffeine supposed to be bad for a baby? And my nerves don’t need any more fuel. Just being in close quarters with Timofey has them firing nonstop. I shake my head.
“I’d rather be here with you,” he says.
I search his face for a hidden meaning, but there doesn’t seem to be one. “But you’re worried about your family.”
He rubs a hand over the stubble on his chin. After three days here, it’s almost long enough to call a beard, and it goes a long way toward softening his overall look. I’ll never admit it to him, but it works.
“They’re my responsibility,” he replies.
And just like that, the conversation is over. He’s so tight-lipped about everything, giving me the barest of breadcrumbs before snapping shut again. I sigh, grab a protein bar, and head for the porch where one of his dog-eared paperbacks is waiting for me.
It’s become my refuge in this tiny space. I sit on the porch railing and stare at the pages without really reading anything. A rabbit munches on an overgrown patch of weeds in the front lawn, adorable tiny nose twitching.
The front door swings open, and it hops away as Timofey steps out.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he states, raising one eyebrow. “Which is a feat, in a place this size.”
