Page 60 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
Zita stirs in her sleep, making a soft sound that draws my attention back to her face. There are faint bruises under her eyes from sleepless nights and stress, which are reminders of everything she’s endured because of her connection to me.
The guilt that surfaced when I tried to lock her away for her own protection after the Federoff attack threatens to return, but I push it down. She forgave me for that mistake and trusted me enough to rebuild what I’d damaged with my need to control her safety. I just need to learn from it, not dwell on it.
“You’re staring at me.” Her voice is husky with sleep, and she doesn’t open her eyes when she speaks.
“How do you know?”
“I can feel it.” She turns onto her side to face me, and when she finally opens her eyes, they’re clearer than they’ve been in days. “You’re thinking too hard about something. I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head.”
“I’m thinking about how different everything looks this morning.” I reach out to trace the curve of her cheek with my fingertip, still amazed that she doesn’t flinch away from my touch anymore. “How you’ve changed everything I thought I understood about myself.”
“Which parts?” There’s a hint of curiosity in her voice, like she’s trying to figure out what shift she’s sensing in me.
“All of it.” I lean down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “The way I see you, us, and how I want to build with the power I inherited from my father.”
Zita goes very still, and I can see her processing my words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re not a duty I have to fulfill anymore.” The admission comes out roughly. “You’re not a political alliance or a strategic advantage or a problem I need to solve. You’re the woman I love, and that changes everything about how I want to live.”
“How does it change things?”
“It makes me want to be worthy of what you’ve given me.” I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer. “It makes me want to build something with theBratvathat our children could inherit with pride instead of shame.”
She reaches up to touch my face, her palm warm against my cheek. “You don’t have to earn my love, Tigran. It’s not something you achieve through good behavior or planning. It just exists.”
The simplicity of her statement hits me harder than any complex negotiation or business deal ever has. In my world, everything has a price, and everything requires payment or leverage or careful calculation. The idea that Zita could love me without expecting anything in return feels almost impossible to comprehend.
“I’ve been watching you.” The confession slips out before I can stop it.
“Watching me how?”
“The way you take your coffee, the books you prefer to read, and how you move when you think no one is paying attention.” I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb. “I started noticing these things weeks ago, before I was ready to admit what they meant.”
“What did they mean?”
“That somewhere between hating you, fighting with you, and trying to keep you safe, I started seeing you as a person instead of an obligation.” I kiss her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “That I started wanting to do small things to make you happy without any business purpose behind them.”
“Like bringing me coffee the way I like it?”
“Yes.” I can’t help but smile at how she’s picked up on something I didn’t even realize I was doing consciously. “Or making sure you have books to read during our confinement here or positioning myself between you and any potential threats without even thinking about it.”
“Those things matter more than you probably realize.” Zita’s voice is soft with emotion. “They were the first signs that you saw me as someone worth caring about instead of just someone you had to live with.”
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, and I catalog the details of this moment. These are the kinds of memories I want to collect instead of the ones that have filled my life until now.
“Can I tell you something?” Zita’s voice breaks the quiet.
“Anything.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me about your mother, about how she died trying to get your father to choose differently.” She shifts so she can see my face better. “It made me think about my own mother, and why she really left.”
This is new territory. Zita has mentioned her mother’s abandonment before, but never with the openness she’s showing now.
“What about her?”
“I used to think she left because she didn’t love me enough to stay.” Zita’s voice is carefully controlled, like she’s trying not to let old pain bleed through.
I can see the effort it’s taking for her to share this, and I stay quiet, letting her work through whatever she needs to say.
