Page 70 of Bratva Bride
He leans in, dropping his voice. “We found her with a guy. Not one of ours—someone we’re assuming is ex-military. Dangerous. Not the sort to be caught up in anything ordinary. Do you know what she’s involved in, Konstantin?”
I shake my head, the truth twisting in my gut. I want to tell Viktor he’s wrong, that Nadya isn’t capable of those kinds of secrets, but I can’t. Not after everything. Not after how quickly she ran, how determined she was to stay hidden—even from me.
Viktor studies me, searching for a crack. “You need to ask yourself if you’re willing to keep pretending you know her, or if you’re finally ready to find out what she’s really running from.”
I say nothing, just stare at the door where Nadya disappeared.
The room is too quiet after Viktor’s words, and I can’t ignore the way they settle in my chest, heavy and corrosive. I wipe the blood from my knuckles, flexing my hand, trying to get the tremor out. I want to go after Nadya, demand she tell me everything, make her look me in the eye and swear she hasn’t betrayed me, hasn’t gotten herself tangled in something I can’t fix with violence.
But I don’t move. I stand there, frozen in the wreckage of my own anger, Viktor’s gaze heavy on my shoulders.
“What did you find?” I ask, forcing my voice even.
“Still trying to figure it out. But you want to know what she’s running from? Start with him.”
I think of Nadya—her pale face, the lines of exhaustion, the bruises she tried to hide. The way she looked at me a moment ago, half-angry, half-afraid. I want to believe she’s only protecting Mila, that every secret is for our daughter’s sake. But doubt claws at me, raw and insistent.
I grit my teeth. “If there’s something she’s hiding, I’ll get it out of her. Nobody’s going to touch her—or Mila. Not him, not anyone else.”
Viktor just gives me a long, unreadable look. “Don’t let pride make you blind,” he says softly. “Ask her, before you decide who to trust.”
He turns away, leaving me alone with my anger, my pride, and a storm of suspicion that refuses to settle. I stare at the closed door where Nadya vanished, my fist throbbing, the urge to go after her nearly overwhelming.
Viktor’s words echo, leaving an aftertaste of doubt I can’t swallow. I rub blood from my knuckles, still staring at the empty doorway, when Anya moves closer—her steps soft, measured, always so poised even with chaos still thick in the air.
She doesn’t bother with sympathy for the man Maksim dragged away, just studies me with those cool, intent eyes. “You did what you had to do,” she says quietly, her voice a silk thread meant only for me. “You protected what’s yours.”
I barely acknowledge her, distracted, my mind tangled in what Viktor just said and what Nadya’s hiding. I know Anya is standing close, the line of her body angled toward mine, the faint scent of her perfume coiling up with every breath.
She touches my arm, lingering, almost a caress. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know. If you ever need someone who actually understands, I’m here.”
Her presence is unmistakable—her attention, her offer—but it barely registers. All I can see is the way Nadya looked at me, the pain and accusation in her eyes, the way she didn’t flinch from the blood or the anger.
I flex my aching hand, jaw tight. “Not now, Anya,” I murmur, more out of exhaustion than anything else. I don’t have it in me to be gentle, or to pretend I want what she’s offering. My head is pounding with too many questions, too much regret.
She lingers a moment, searching my face, then lets her hand fall. “If you need me, you know where to find me,” she says, her tone velvet and just a little wounded.
I nod absently, already half-lost in the worry and doubt.
Hours pass before I let myself go to her. By the time I open Nadya’s door, she’s sitting at the foot of the bed, knees drawn up, her arms wrapped tight around herself like armor. She doesn’t look at me right away. Her eyes are on the window, the light outside fading into dusk.
I step inside, but before I can speak, the quiet is broken by the sound of heels and shuffling feet. One after another, women file in behind me, arms full of silk and velvet, hangers clacking, boxes and garment bags piling up at the end of the bed. It’s a small army of stylists and housekeepers, faces politely blank, setting out dresses in every color and cut.
Nadya looks up, brows drawn tight, her voice flat and suspicious. “What’s this?”
I cross my arms, meeting her gaze. “Get ready. We have a party to attend tonight.”
She doesn’t move, her mouth set in a hard line. “I’m not going to any party.” Her nose flares, and I see the anger and the exhaustion burning under her skin, the same refusal I’ve always both hated and loved about her.
I step closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear, my tone equal parts command and plea. “This isn’t a choice, Nadya. It’s important. You’re coming.”
She lifts her chin, eyes blazing, her fingers curling tighter around the edge of the bedspread. “You can drag me through hell, Konstantin, but you can’t make me smile for your friends.”
For a heartbeat, all the tension from earlier crackles between us.
I don’t back down. “You don’t have to smile. Just be there. I need you by my side tonight.”
She stares at me, searching for any weakness, any place to push back—but I hold her gaze, letting her see that this isn’t just about power or pride. It’s about survival, reputation, and sending a message to everyone watching.
