Page 35 of Bratva Bride
Her eyes snapped to mine. Surprise and suspicion tangled together in those dark depths. Her fingers found the edge of the table, gripped tight enough to turn her knuckles white.
"Where?" The word came out sharp. Defensive. Ready to catalog the trap before it could close.
"The New York Aquarium in Coney Island." I kept my voice even, casual, like this was a normal suggestion between normal people. "It's quiet on weekday mornings. Peaceful. I thought—"
I stopped myself before saying what I really thought. That watching jellyfish might make her feel small and safe in the good way. That the dim blue lighting would be soothing for someone whose nervous system hadn't stopped firing since her father dropped her off. That sometimes Littles needed environments that made them feel protected without having to ask for it.
"I thought you might like to get out," I said instead. "See something beautiful. Not think about last night or treaties or anything else for a few hours."
She studied me with those intelligent eyes that missed nothing. Looking for the angle. The leverage. The reason abratva boss would want to take his treaty bride to look at fish. Her mind was probably running through scenarios—public execution, meeting with father's enemies, some elaborate punishment disguised as an outing.
"You want to take me to an . . . aquarium?" She said it slowly, like she was tasting the words for poison.
"Yes."
"To look at . . . fish?"
"And jellyfish. Penguins. Sea turtles. They have a whole shark exhibit if you're interested, though personally I find the jellyfish more—" I caught myself before saying 'soothing.' "—interesting."
Her brow furrowed slightly. The confusion of someone who'd prepared for violence and been offered something else entirely. "Why?"
Because you haven't eaten in two days. Because you're shaking apart from anxiety. Because you need to see that the world outside isn't all cages and consequences. Because maybe, possibly, you'll uncurl from that defensive posture if you're somewhere that feels safe.
"Think of it as our honeymoon," I said simply. "Look, I know that you’re worried. But sitting in this penthouse won't make anything better or worse. Your father won't know about last night any faster if we stay here. Nothing changes. So we might as well look at something beautiful while we wait for nothing to happen."
She processed this with that computer-brain of hers.
"You don't have to," I added quickly. "If you'd rather stay here, we can—"
"Okay." The word escaped like she surprised herself by saying it. "I'll go."
Relief flooded through me with enough force that I had to focus on keeping my expression neutral. She'd said yes. To leaving. To trusting me enough to get in a car and go somewhere.To believing, maybe, that I wouldn't use this as an opportunity to hurt her.
"Good." I managed to keep my voice steady despite the victory hammering in my chest. "Wear something comfortable. We'll leave in an hour."
She stood, abandoning her architectural egg creation without a backward glance. "Comfortable?"
"Jeans. Sneakers. Whatever feels good." Not whatever's appropriate for a bratva wife. Not whatever makes you look like property. Whatever makes you feel like yourself.
She nodded once, then moved toward the guest room with that same careful walk. Like the ground might give way with any sudden movement. The door closed with a soft click that somehow sounded hopeful.
I sat at the table staring at her untouched breakfast and allowed myself three seconds of optimism. She'd said yes. She was willing to leave the penthouse with me. To go somewhere public where she could scream for help if she needed to.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
TheNewYorkAquariumon Tuesday morning felt like church without the guilt—hushed voices, filtered light, the sense that something sacred lived in the silence. I’d paid extra for early access, and I'd pay it again weekly if it meant seeing Anya's shoulders drop from their defensive position near her ears. The cold wind off Coney Island had turned her cheeks pink on the walk from the parking lot. The first color I'd seen in her face since the wedding.
A handful of families dotted the main building—a mother with twins in a stroller, a grandfather explaining something to a boy who couldn't have been more than five, a schoolgroup in matching yellow shirts being herded by a teacher who looked ready for retirement. Enough people that Anya didn't feel isolated with me. Not enough that she had to navigate crowds while her nervous system was already overloaded.
We started at Ocean Wonders, the massive habitat on the main floor. Four hundred thousand gallons of manufactured ocean behind acrylic panels thick enough to withstand the pressure. The entrance tunnel curved beneath the water, putting us inside the exhibit rather than just observing it. Blue light filtered through like we'd already drowned and found peace on the other side.
A green sea turtle glided past, ancient and unhurried, and Anya made a sound I'd never heard from her before. Soft. Wondering. The kind of noise you made when something beautiful caught you off guard and your body responded before your brain could censor it.
She moved toward the glass without seeming to decide to. Her hand came up slowly, palm flat against the acrylic, and the turtle circled back like it had been waiting for her attention. Her fingers followed its path—tracing shell patterns, the lazy sweep of flippers through water, the prehistoric grace of something that had survived extinction events and ice ages and every disaster the world could throw at it.
"They can live for a hundred years," she said quietly. Not to me, exactly. More like she was speaking to the turtle, or to herself, or to the blue light that made everything feel like a dream. "Some longer. Can you imagine? A hundred years of this. Just floating. No worry about treaties or fathers or—"
She stopped herself. But her hand stayed on the glass, and the turtle stayed close, like they'd recognized something in each other.
