Page 23 of Bratva Bride
But tonight, I stood in his doorway watching him sleep, and something in my chest that had been clenched for twenty-six years finally, finally loosened.
Chapter 5
Ivan
I'dbeenawakesincefour, lying in bed like a corpse while my mind ran probability calculations on every sound from down the hall. The creak of the guest room door. Her footsteps—hesitant, then more confident—moving through my space. The soft thud of a book being pulled from the shelf later on. Each noise a data point that said she was still here, hadn't used the key, had chosen to stay at least one more night.
At 6:30, I gave up on sleep entirely. My body felt like it had been through a fight—muscles tense, jaw aching from clenching, that particular exhaustion that came from hypervigilance maintained for hours. I'd listened to her move around my penthouse like a ghost, and some part of me had been convinced she'd eventually make her way to the elevator. Use the key. Disappear.
But she hadn't. And I didn't know what that meant.
I pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt, ran my hands through my hair without bothering to look in a mirror. The hallway wasempty, her guest room door closed, but I could hear her in the living space as I approached—the slight shift of leather against fabric.
The Eames chair faced the windows, catching the early morning light that turned the Hudson into liquid gold. I could see the back of her head, dark hair falling loose around her shoulders instead of the severe bun she'd worn when her father delivered her. She'd curled into the chair like a cat seeking warmth, knees pulled to her chest, my oversized t-shirt—the one I'd given her to sleep in—drowning her frame.
She was reading. One of my books—Pushkin. Eugene Onegin by the looks of it. Her lips moved slightly as she read, forming words in silence.
And she was chewing on the sleeve of the t-shirt.
The fabric was bunched in her mouth, caught between her teeth while she read with total absorption. Her jaw worked unconsciously, a self-soothing behavior she probably didn't even realize she was doing. The sleeve was dark where it was wet, and something about that detail—the evidence of her anxiety, her need for comfort—made my chest feel too small for my lungs.
I'd seen it before. In Clara when Alexei first brought her home, when she'd curl up small and need something in her mouth to feel grounded. In Eva during her bad days, when Dmitry would give her a pacifier and she'd finally relax. It was a Little thing. A tell that said Anya's need for structure, for care, for someone to make decisions when the world felt too big—it was real. Biological. Not something her father had beaten out of her completely.
She needed a Daddy. Someone who'd understand that the sleeve-chewing meant she was overwhelmed, who'd replace that wet fabric with something designed for the purpose. A pacifier in a color she liked. Something soft and safe that she could usewithout shame when her brilliant mind needed her body to do something simple.
My cock hardened against my will, pressing against the soft cotton of my sweatpants. The physical response felt obscene when she was sitting twenty feet away, terrified of me touching her. But I couldn't stop my body's reaction to the image my mind conjured—Anya curled in my lap instead of my chair, a pacifier between her lips, her breathing finally even and calm because I'd given her permission to be small.
Blyad. Fuck.
I forced myself to look away, to move toward the kitchen instead of toward her. The coffee maker was my anchor—familiar ritual, mechanical process, something to do with my hands that wasn't touching her. I measured beans with precision I didn't need, ground them finer than necessary, focused on the sound of the grinder to drown out the wanting that sat in my chest like a living thing.
She didn't want this. Didn't want me. She'd made that crystal clear last night, breaking down at the dinner table, begging me to just get it over with quickly. The memory of her tears, her panic, the way she'd said please like it was the only word left in her vocabulary—it was enough to kill any fantasy about giving her what she needed.
She was here because leaving meant her father would kill her. She was here because the treaty demanded it. She was here because I was the least terrible option in a situation with no good ones, and any attraction I felt was my problem to manage, not hers to navigate.
The coffee maker hissed and gurgled, filling the silence with something other than my thoughts. I watched the dark liquid drip into the carafe, counted the drops—seven, eight, nine—anything to distract from the sound of pages turning and the knowledge that she was still chewing on that sleeve.
The coffee finished brewing. I poured two cups—black for me, then remembered I didn't know how she took hers.
I carried both mugs toward the living space, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. She still hadn't noticed me—too absorbed in Pushkin and her anxiety management. The morning light painted her in gold, made her look younger than twenty-six, more vulnerable than the woman who'd corrected my men about her name while being kidnapped.
"Coffee," I said quietly, not wanting to startle her.
She jerked anyway, the book snapping shut, the sleeve pulling from her mouth as she uncurled with that particular grace that suggested yoga or dance training. Her face flushed—embarrassment at being caught, probably, though she had nothing to be embarrassed about. This was her space now too.
"Thank you," she said, taking the mug with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic like it could ground her. "I didn't know how you took yours. There's milk in the refrigerator if—"
"Black is fine." She took a sip, made a face that said it wasn't fine at all, but didn't complain. Added it to my mental file: Anya doesn't drink black coffee but will rather than cause trouble.
I sat on the sofa, maintaining distance.
"What would you like to do today?" I asked, keeping my voice even, casual. Like this was normal. Like she was a guest who could choose her activities instead of a treaty bride counting down to a wedding she didn't want.
She didn't answer. Just stared at her coffee, then reached down beside the chair for something I hadn't noticed—her laptop. The motion was smooth, practiced, like she'd done it a thousand times. Pulling out her real life, her real self, the part of her that existed independent of treaties and fathers and men who couldn't stop watching her.
She opened it without looking at me, and the message was clear: conversation over. She'd tolerate my presence, accept my coffee, but she wasn't going to pretend this was a relationship.
Which was fine. Expected, even. Exactly what I'd told myself I wanted—distance, boundaries, separate lives that happened to share an address.
