Page 78 of Bratva Bride
An hour to pack up paradise and return to hell. An hour to watch Anya retreat back into herself, walls reconstructing, trust evaporating. An hour to pretend my heart wasn't being systematically shredded by the knowledge that I might lose her not to death but to politics.
"One hour," I confirmed. "We'll be airborne."
The screen went dark, and I stood there for a moment, phone in hand, feeling the weight of our world crashing back down. Six people dead. Three dying. A bombing that might unravel everything we'd fought to build.
I watched Anya move through the space with mechanical precision, gathering evidence of our week in paradise like she was cataloging artifacts from someone else's life.
Marina went into the travel bag first, carefully wrapped in one of Anya's sundresses—the purple one she'd worn to the sensory session. Peanut followed, tucked against Marina like they were protecting each other. The coloring books came next, pages filled with careful gradients and experimental color combinations, documentation of a woman learning to play. Her journal—the lavender leather one where she'd been writing about feeling safe for the first time—disappeared into her laptop bag with movements so controlled they looked choreographed.
She wasn't crying. Wasn't speaking. Wasn't even really present. This was Anya in full defensive mode, the walls I'd spent weeks carefully dismantling reconstructing themselves brick by brick with each item she packed. Her shoulders pulled in, making herself smaller. Her eyes stayed fixed on tasks rather than meeting mine. Her breathing had gone shallowand regulated—that careful rhythm she used to manage panic attacks.
"Anya," I said, reaching for her as she passed with an armload of books.
She sidestepped me with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent years avoiding unwanted touch. Not aggressive, not obvious, just a subtle shift that put her out of reach while maintaining forward momentum. The rejection stung more than any deliberate cruelty could have.
I followed her to the regression room, where she stood in the doorway like she couldn't quite bring herself to enter. The purple walls that had witnessed her joy, her freedom, her ability to be small and safe, now seemed to mock us. The toy chest sat open from yesterday, wooden blocks and art supplies visible, waiting for a little girl who'd already had to grow up again.
"We could take them," I offered, gesturing at the toys. "The blocks, the markers—"
"No." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "They belong here. To this place. They wouldn't mean the same thing in New York."
She was right, but hearing her say it—hearing her accept that the safety we'd built here couldn't travel with us—made my chest tight with something that might have been grief. I watched her close the toy chest with deliberate finality, like sealing a coffin.
The bookshelf still held her picture books. Where the Wild Things Are. The Paper Bag Princess. Stories about children who went on adventures and came home safe. Stories that lied.
She selected just one—Corduroy, the bear looking for his missing button, searching for home. She held it against her chest for a moment, eyes closed, then tucked it into her bag with Marina and Peanut. One piece of evidence that this week had been real.
Theseaplanewaitedatthe dock, sun-bright and wrong for our funeral mood. I helped Anya in, though she didn't need it—her body had gone back to hypervigilant independence, every movement calculated to require no assistance. She took the window seat and immediately turned away from me, staring out at the water we'd been swimming in yesterday.
Crystal blue stretched to the horizon, dotted with the dark shapes of rays and turtles we'd snorkeled above. The reef where she'd grabbed my hand in wonder when a school of butterfly fish surrounded us. The deeper blue where we'd floated on ridiculous pool toys, her laughter echoing across the water. All of it still there, continuing without us, indifferent to our departure.
As the plane lifted off, I watched Anya's reflection in the window. Her lips were moving slightly—counting, I realized. Running calculations. Her brilliant brain processing implications at the speed of light, reaching conclusions I could see settling into her expression like stones.
"Anya, look at me."
She didn't turn, but her reflection met my eyes in the glass.
"This doesn't change anything between us."
That got her to turn, and her eyes were devastated but clear. Analytical. She'd already run all the probability scenarios and reached her conclusions.
"Doesn't it?" Her voice was steady, reasonable, professorial. "The marriage was a business arrangement to ensure peace. The peace has failed. Therefore, the marriage has no purpose."
"That's not—"
"I was supposed to be the treaty," she continued with the same terrible rationality. "The living symbol of alliance. The reason for bratva families to stop killing each other. And six people are dead. Six, Ivan. The treaty failed." She paused, swallowed, forcedout the next words. "I failed. Maybe they knew. Maybemyfamily did this?"
The words hit like physical blows. Before I could respond, the pilot was announcing our approach to the main airport, and Anya was turning back to the window, conversation closed. Her hand found Marina through the bag, fingers worrying the whale's fin through the fabric—the only sign that underneath the controlled exterior, my wife was slowly shattering.
Chapter 16
Anya
Fivesecondsofbliss.
Five seconds of feeling Ivan’s chest rise and fall beneath me. Five seconds of smelling him. Five seconds of feeling his warmth.
My body remembered safety before my brain remembered danger—muscles loose, breathing deep, that drowsy warmth of being held.
