Page 48 of Sold to the Bratva
“I needed to remember who I was before you,” she says. “Before all of this. Before guns and guards and kidnappings.”
“And did you?”
She draws a slow breath and nods. “I remembered I used to feel alive when I painted. I remembered that I wanted a life of my own. That I still do.”
I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.
“I didn’t leave to hurt you,” she says. “I just needed to breathe.”
I nod once. “I get that. I should’ve seen it,” I say quietly. “I should’ve asked more, given you space before you felt you had to run from me to find it. Before you had to find out how dangerous it was to leave without telling me.”
She shakes her head. “I always thought I’d travel, open a gallery, maybe fall in love on my own time. Do things in the order that made sense to me.”
“And now it’s all upside down.”
She nods slowly. “I’mterrified, Isaac. I sure as hell didn’t think I’d be pregnant this soon. And I didn’t think I’d have to give up everything I ever dreamed of just to keep the peace between our families. I certainly didn’t think I’d be kidnapped.”
My throat tightens. I can hear the resignation in her voice, the sadness she hasn’t dared say out loud until now.
“I’m not trying to take anything from you, Katya. I want to build somethingwithyou. If you want this studio, it’s yours. If you want to open a gallery, I’ll fund it. If you need two lives, one here and one with me, I’ll make it happen. I told you, there is nothing you can ask for that I won’t give. And I will never let anyone hurt you again.”
Tears gather in her eyes, and she shakes her head. “Why are you so good to me?”
Because I love you, I almost say.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead I tell her, “Because I see you, all of you. And I want you to feel like you still belong to yourself, even when you belong to me, too.”
A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away. I pull her into my arms and hold her while she cries. And when her breathing slows, when her hand curls into the fabric of my jacket and she rests her forehead against my shoulder, I whisper, “Come home.”
She doesn’t answer. She only leans into me, small in my arms yet carrying a weight that has been breaking her open piece by piece. I hold her as though she’s fragile, even though I know she’s anything but.
Eventually, she pulls back, just enough to look up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but steady now. Clear.
“You haven’t lost your dreams, Katya,” I promise her. “Not to me. And not because of this marriage.”
Her brow furrows, as if she wants to believe me but isn’t sure she should.
I soften my voice. “I care for you,” I promise. “I’ll do anything you need to protect you and our child.”
That stills her.
The silence stretches until she finally asks, “You care for me?”
“More than you could imagine. More than I ever thought I could.”
She studies me for a long beat, all her sharp edges dulled by exhaustion, fear, and something that might be hope.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“Okay?”
“I’ll come home.”
The relief that floods my chest is so sudden, so immense, it nearly knocks me back. I nod, careful not to say anything more that might make her pull away again. Instead, I reach for her, press a kiss to her forehead, and breathe her in.
Instead of heading home, I turn in the direction of her studio. She looks at me in wonder.
