Page 34 of Sold to the Bratva
He finally sinks into the chair across from my desk. “This thing between you two is real, isn’t it?”
I arch a brow. “I wouldn’t have married her if it wasn’t,” I say, voice flat.
As quick and unexpected as this marriage was, I couldn’t have gone through with it if I didn’t see myself with her long-term. Katya has teeth and fire, a backbone stronger than most men I know, yet a softness that draws things out of me I never knew existed.
Mikhail studies me for a beat, then nods as though that settles something in his own mind. He doesn’t press further, and I’mgrateful. There’s only so much I’m willing to share about Katya, even with the people I trust. What I feel for her is too new, too raw, and too sacred to turn into casual conversation.
He rises from the chair without another word. Once he leaves, I let the silence stretch, fingers tapping absently against the armrest. I can’t wait any longer. Even though a mountain of work sits on my desk, I can’t stay put knowing she’s somewhere in this house. I need to be with her.
I take the long way through the corridor, slowing as I reach the side hallway leading to the garden. Through the glass doors I spot her before she notices me. She’s perched on the edge of a stone bench, one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched out lazily. Her sketchbook balances on her knee, head tilted in concentration while her hand flies across the page. A breeze lifts her hair from her shoulders, and the sunlight kisses her face, robbing me of breath.
I don’t move, not yet. I let myself watch her for another heartbeat, drinking her in. She’s wearing a soft sleeveless top and jeans, nothing fancy, yet she looks more regal than any woman I’ve ever seen. She’s completely absorbed in her work, the small smile tugging at her mouth telling me she’s in her element. She’s not pretending here, not playing the perfect wife or polished heiress. She’s just Katya. A woman who is wild, brilliant, and real. And she’s mine.
I clear my throat softly, not wanting to startle her. Her head lifts, eyes locking on mine. The smile she offers is small but unguarded, and warmth spreads through my chest.
“Got a second?” I ask, stepping out onto the stone path.
“For you?” she says, shutting her sketchbook. “Always.”
I cross to her and offer my hand. She slips hers into mine without hesitation and her fingers are warm and smudged with graphite. I don’t let go.
“I’ve got something to show you,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift. “Should I be nervous?”
“Maybe.”
She snorts softly, then stands, brushing invisible dust from her jeans.
“Is it another gun vault?” she teases. “A secret tunnel? One of those underground Bratva poker rooms?”
“No.But now I’m tempted to add a few.”
She laughs, and the sound spears straight through me. I force myself to think of the most boring, mundane details just to keep my excitement in check.
I lead her back into the house, my thumb tracing slow circles along the back of her hand as we walk. We reach the far hallway on the first floor, and I stop in front of a door that’s been locked since the day she moved in.
She narrows her eyes. “I thought this room was being remodeled,” she says.
“It was, and now it’s finished.” I can’t help but grin, my heart pounding in anticipation of her reaction.
I reach for the handle and open the door.
She steps inside and freezes.
Light pours through tall arched windows and spills across the newly laid wood floors. One wall is lined with blank canvases beside an industrial shelf stocked with every supply I could find. There’s acrylics, oils, charcoals, stacks of high-quality paper, and fresh brushes grouped by thickness. A sleek drafting table anchors the far corner, while an easel waits beneath the window, a rolling cart brimming with pencils and tools at its side. A plush, height-adjustable stool sits nearby. Warm, natural overhead lighting replaces anything clinical, and discreet surround-sound speakers promise music while she works.
Katya doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. She just stands there, stunned.
I step closer and lower my voice. “I know you worried marriage might mean giving up some of the things you love. But I want you to have everything you need at your fingertips. You’re not here just to be my wife, Katya. You’re here to be you.”
She turns, eyes glassy. “You did all this for me?”
The genuine shock in her voice nearly undoes me. All I can do is nod.
“I don’t even know what to say,” she whispers.
“Then don’t say anything,” I offer.
