Page 49 of Sold to the Bratva
“Finish your painting,” I say. “I’m happy to sit here and watch.”
She blinks, surprised. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
Katya stares at me for another second, then gives me a tentative, genuine smile.
We exit the car and walk up to her study. She gives an involuntary shudder at the reminder of her ordeal. At the knowledge that her sacred space was defiled.
“I will have new locks and a state of the art security system installed tonight,” I tell her. “You will never have to worry about your safety when you are here again.”
She nods and walks to the easel and lifts her brush. I move to the corner of the studio, claim a paint-spattered stool, and settle in to watch her work.
There’s something serene about her process. She mixes colors without a second thought. Her brow furrows when she’s in flow. She steps back now and then, tilting her head, deciding whether the piece is speaking the truth or merely pretending.
I don’t interrupt. I don’t speak. I just watch her paint. With every stroke I know this woman, this life we’re building, the child she carries, matter more than anything I’ve ever done. I’ve spilled blood, built an empire, buried enemies deep, but none of it means a damn thing compared with her.
And I’ll protect it with everything I am.
19
KATYA
It takes a full week to finish the painting. Each morning Isaac kisses me goodbye, then lets me retreat to my old studio so I can keep working. The place isn’t half as polished as the one he built for me at the mansion, yet the chipped brick and paint-splattered floors feel like home. He notices, senses how badly I need the distance, and grants it without a single complaint. Especially since the space is now outfitted with a ridiculous amount of cameras, a retinal scanner for entry, and two guards posted at the door.
For seven straight days I shuttle between the mansion and that battered loft, bleeding every emotion onto the canvas. When I’m finished, the piece is raw, haunting, unlike anything I’ve painted before and yet somehow stunning. Captivating, even.
I could build an entire show around it, certainly a collection. But I don’t want Isaac to see it yet. I don’t want him staring at the finished product and thinking I’m still drowning in agony.
It is exactly that. My worst fears and nightmares captured in color and shape. Yet there’s beauty in the chaos, a thread of catharsis and love woven through every brushstroke. And thebest part? Now that those emotions live on the canvas, there’s finally space in my chest to breathe. I’m actually okay.
The fear hasn’t vanished. It’s only dulled, its edges blunted. The way Isaac held me in the studio, the way he looked at me as though I were the only thing in his universe, shifted something inside me. It settled a part of me I hadn’t even realized was restless.
We’re not perfect, but we’re trying. His small gestures brighten my life in tiny ways. I see it in the mug of tea he sets beside me every morning, in the healthy breakfast he makes the staff prepare. I see it in the check-in texts he sends every few hours, making sure I’ve eaten and had enough water. Most of all, I feel it in the way he holds me at night all soft, reverent, and intimate without presuming it has to lead to sex.
Now that Isaac and I have come to terms with our forthcoming bundle of joy, it’s time to tell my father. I’ve dreaded this moment, because I honestly don’t know how he’ll react. He wants me to bear strong Bratva babies, but did he ever imagine it would happen this quickly? It rattled Isaac and me to the core, yet part of me believes he’ll be at least a little happy for us.
My biggest fear, of course, is that he won’t be happy at all. Knowing him, he’ll probably accuse me of being a slut, of fooling around before the wedding. Yes, the timing is suspiciously quick, but this baby can only be Isaac’s, and we definitely didn’t sleep together until our wedding night.
We have nothing to be ashamed of, yet I can’t shake the pit in my stomach whenever I imagine telling my father.
I’m the one who brings it up over breakfast. Isaac happily butters his toast, blissfully unaware I’m about to torpedo his day, maybe even his entire week.
“We should tell my father.”
His fork freezes midair, and the color drains from his face. “Tell him what?” he asks. “That you’re pregnant?”
I nod.
He studies me for a moment, then inclines his head in approval. “We might as well rip off the Band-Aid,” he says, slipping his calm, composed mask back into place. “We’ll go today.”
I pretend I’m not terrified. The queasiness churning in my stomach? Just run-of-the-mill morning sickness. Everything will be fine and he’ll be happy for us. How could he not be? Still, I squeeze Isaac’s hand the entire drive to my childhood home.
The house looms ahead, equal parts impressive and foreboding. The lawn is trimmed within an inch of its life, the iron gate groans open on cue. As we cross the threshold, the air itself shifts. I’m not afraid of the house, but I’m afraid of the weight of what we’re about to say.
“Katya,” my father says warmly as we enter the foyer. He crosses the space with open arms. “Isaac.”
He clasps Isaac’s hand as though they’ve always been allies, as though they haven’t spent years tearing at each other’s throats, as though this marriage isn’t still a fragile cease-fire.
