Page 34 of Bratva Bride
Because he would know, somehow. Men like Viktor always knew. He'd have contacts, spies, some way of verifying whether his daughter had fulfilled her purpose. And when he discovered she hadn't—
I threw off the covers, needing movement, needing to stop thinking about what Viktor might do to punish perceived failure. My bare feet hit cold hardwood, grounding me in the present. The bedside clock read 6:47. Thirteen minutes until seven. A reasonable hour to be awake. A normal time to make coffee and pretend everything was fine.
The shower ran too hot, but I didn't adjust it. Let the water scald away the feeling of Anya's eyes on me last night. I dressed mechanically—jeans, black t-shirt, the casual clothes that made me look less like a bratva boss and more like someone she might not need to fear. As if clothes could change what I was.
It was ridiculous. I was married to a gorgeous woman, but there was no joy in my heart. None.
The hallway stretched between my room and the living space, twenty-three steps that felt like crossing a minefield. Each footfall might detonate whatever fragile peace we'd managed. I could hear something—the whisper of pages turning. She was awake. Of course she was awake. Probably hadn't slept either, too busy calculating escape routes and survival strategies.
I found her exactly where I'd expected—the Eames chair, angled toward the morning sun. But everything else made my chest constrict. She'd pulled her knees to her chest, making herself small in my oversized t-shirt. The one I'd given her that first night, now wrinkled from being slept in. Or not slept in. Dostoevsky'sCrime and Punishmentrested against her thighs—because apparently she was reading about guilt and moral suffering, which felt too appropriate.
The sleeve was in her mouth.
She chewed the fabric unconsciously, jaw working in a rhythm that probably matched her racing thoughts. The cotton was dark with moisture, bunched between her teeth like she needed something to bite down on just to keep from screaming. A tell so obvious it might as well have been a neon sign:I'm not okay. I'm drowning. I need help but don't know how to ask.
Her eyes were swollen. Red-rimmed. The kind of puffiness that came from crying hard enough to give yourself a headache. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned a page, and I could see her fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. Fresh damage. Last night's anxiety made physical.
She thought she'd failed the treaty. Thought punishment was coming. Thought her father would somehow know his virgin daughter remained untouched and extract whatever brutal price he'd promised. All because I'd been noble. Because I'd insisted on consent. Because I'd confessed feelings that made everything worse instead of better.
"Coffee?" I offered, keeping my voice carefully neutral. Like we were roommates. Like this was normal.
She startled, the book sliding sideways as her body jerked. The sleeve pulled from her mouth with a wet sound that made something in my chest twist. Her eyes found mine—dark, exhausted, careful.
"Thank you," she whispered. Barely audible. The voice of someone trying not to take up space.
I moved to the kitchen, muscle memory guiding me through the ritual. Grind beans. Measure water. Start the machine. Normal movements while nothing felt normal. The coffee maker gurgled and hissed, filling the silence with something that wasn't the weight of everything unsaid between us.
Two mugs. Black for me. I’d try white for her today. See how she reacted. I brought both to where she sat, extending hers like a peace offering I didn't deserve to have accepted.
She took it with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic like it could warm more than just her palms. "Thank you," she said, though I hadn't asked.
I sat on the sofa. Twenty feet away. Might as well have been twenty miles for all the distance between us.
I had to fix this.
Breakfastwasanotherperformancein careful normalcy—scrambled eggs that she wouldn't eat, toast that would grow cold, orange juice neither of us wanted.
I stood at the stove pushing eggs around the pan with mechanical precision while Anya remained in the chair.
"Food's ready," I announced to the silence.
She moved to the dining table like she was approaching an execution. Each step measured, controlled, the kind of walk you did when your body wanted to run but your mind knew there was nowhere to go. She sat in the same chair she'd used yesterday, folded her hands in her lap, waited for permission that didn't need to be given.
I set the plate in front of her. Scrambled eggs, wheat toast with butter, orange juice in crystal that caught morning light and threw it across the table like scattered diamonds. A normal breakfast for an abnormal morning where my wife—that word still felt foreign—believed she'd signed her own death warrant by not fucking me on our wedding night.
She picked up her fork with steady hands. Started moving eggs around her plate in precise patterns.
Time passed. Her eggs had been reorganized a dozen different ways. Not a single bite had made it to her mouth.
"You need to eat," I said quietly.
"I'm not hungry." Her voice was flat. Empty.
But I could see her pulse hammering in her throat. Could see the slight tremor in her fingers when she set the fork down. Could practically hear her thoughts spiraling:He'll know. Father always knows. The informants, the spies, the people who report back. Someone will tell him his daughter is still untouched. Still unused. Still failing her purpose.
Her shoulders had crept up toward her ears. Defensive posture. Protective.
"I want to take you somewhere," I said carefully. Testing the words like stepping on ice that might crack.
