Page 20 of Bratva Bride
I watched Ivan work with the kind of focused precision that suggested cooking was another system he'd mastered.
"Satsivi," he said, pulling chicken from the refrigerator. "Georgian chicken in walnut sauce. Old recipe."
He worked without looking at me, giving me space to observe without the weight of his attention. His hands were elegant despite their size, each movement economical. He toasted walnuts in a dry pan, the smell filling the space with warmth. Ground them with garlic, coriander, fenugreek—spices I recognized from my study of regional cuisines. Added water slowly, turning it into sauce with the patience of someone who'd done this enough times to know rushing ruined it.
"My grandmother taught me. She was from Tbilisi," he said, adjusting the heat under the sauce. "Came to Brooklyn with my grandfather. Refused to learn English for three years because she said Russian and Georgian were enough for any civilized person."
I'd moved to the tulip table without consciously deciding to, drawn by the normalcy of someone cooking dinner. The chair was more comfortable than it looked, cradling my body in a way that suggested Saarinen understood something about human need that my father's decorator had missed.
"She taught you to cook?" I asked, needing the distraction of conversation, needing anything that wasn't the countdown timer in my head.
"Taught me that food was love," he said, shredding the poached chicken with two forks. "That you could tell everything about someone by how they fed others."
Ivan plated the food with the same precision he'd used to cook it. The chicken arranged over rice, the walnut sauce pooled artfully, fresh herbs scattered on top. Restaurant presentation for a dinner I couldn't eat, my stomach a knot of terror that had nothing to do with his cooking and everything to do with fear of what would come after the wedding.
They way his fingers worked—is that how they would work on me? Would he carefully undo my clothes, or just tear them from my body? My heart pounded as panic grew.
The treaty must be consummated within a week.
My father's voice in the car, clinical and cruel: "Don't make him force you. It's less painful if you cooperate."
Ivan set the plate in front of me. The smell should have been appetizing—garlic and walnuts and fresh coriander. Instead, it made my stomach revolt. He'd taken such care with this meal, his grandmother's recipe, and I was going to disappoint him by not eating it. First disappointment of many. First failure to be the wife the treaty demanded.
That's when I broke.
The tears came without permission, hot and humiliating, streaming down my face faster than I could wipe them away. My breath hitched, caught, turned into something between a sob and a gasp. All the control I'd maintained through my father's threats, through the elevator ride, through studying Ivan's beautiful penthouse—it shattered like the wine glasses my father threw when angry.
"Please," I whispered, the word scraping my throat raw. "Please don't—I know the treaty says—I know you have to—but please can we just—can you just get it over with quickly?"
The words tumbled out, desperate and pathetic. "I won't fight. I won't make it difficult. Just please don't—don't make it last. Don't—"
I couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate the terror of being touched by a stranger, claimed by someone who saw me as property to be used. Couldn't explain that my body had never belonged to me, had always been my father's asset to trade, and now it was Ivan's to take.
The silence stretched between us, broken only by my ragged breathing. I stared at the beautiful plated meal through my tears, watching the colors blur together. Such care in the presentation. Such precision. He'd probably be precise about the consummation too. Methodical. Efficient.
Ivan had gone absolutely still across from me. Through my tears, I could see his gray eyes had widened slightly, the only sign of emotion on that controlled face. His hands rested flat on the table, perfectly symmetrical, like he was holding himself in place through will alone.
"Anya." My name in his mouth was careful, considered. "Stop. Breathe."
I tried, but the air wouldn't come properly. My chest hitched with suppressed sobs.
"I'm not going to touch you," he said, and the words were so unexpected I forgot to breathe entirely. “Not before the wedding, not after.”
I stared at him through my tears, certain I'd misheard. The treaty was specific. The marriage must be consummated. My father had been very clear about the consequences if I failed to—
"Breathe," Ivan repeated, his voice steady as a metronome. "Four counts in. Hold for four. Four counts out."
His gray eyes held something I hadn't expected. Not hunger. Not cruel anticipation. Something that looked almost like concern, though that was impossible. The Ice King didn't feel concern. He felt nothing.
"The food will get cold," he said quietly. "But that's fine. Satsivi is traditionally served at room temperature anyway."
Ivan maintained perfect stillness across from me, like he understood that any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile control I'd managed to gather from the pieces of my breakdown. The tears were slowing, but my breath still came in those horrible hiccupping gasps that made me sound like a child. Which maybe I was.
"The treaty says the marriage must be consummated," he said, his voice carefully modulated, like he was reading terms from a contract rather than discussing my virginity. "It doesn't specify when."
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, probably smearing whatever was left of the makeup my father had insisted on for the ceremony. "Within a week. My father said—"
"Your father lied." Simple. Factual. "The treaty says consummation must occur for the marriage to be binding. No timeline specified. We can wait."
