Page 37 of Bratva Bride
The waitress appeared—different one, younger but with the same exhausted efficiency—and I ordered before Anya could overthink it.
"Grilled cheese with tomato soup for her. Burger, medium rare, for me. And a chocolate egg cream to share. Two straws."
Anya's eyebrows rose slightly at my presumption, but she didn't object. Maybe she recognized what I was doing—making decisions so she didn't have to, giving her structure when choice felt overwhelming. Or maybe she was just too tired to argue about sandwiches.
"You know what an egg cream is?" I asked after the waitress left.
"No eggs. No cream." Her lips twitched slightly. "Chocolate syrup, milk, seltzer. New York's most misleading beverage."
"You've had one?"
"I've read about them." She traced patterns on the sticky table with one finger. "My father thought Brooklyn cuisine was beneath us. We ate French. Italian. Japanese. Nothing that came from neighborhoods where people actually lived."
The food arrived faster than should have been possible, but that was Junior's magic. Kitchen that moved at light speed despite looking like it hadn't been updated since the Carter administration. The grilled cheese was perfect—golden brown, cheese oozing out the sides, cut diagonally the way it should be.The tomato soup steamed in a bowl big enough to swim in. The egg cream came in a tall glass with two straws, chocolate foam on top like edible clouds.
Anya stared at the spread like she'd forgotten what food was for.
"Eat," I said gently. "It's physically impossible to have an anxiety attack while eating a grilled cheese."
"That's not scientifically accurate."
"It's Junior's accurate. Different kind of science."
She picked up one triangle of sandwich, hesitated, then took a small bite. Her eyes closed as she chewed, and she made that sound again—the soft, wondering noise from the aquarium. But this time it was deeper. Throatier. The kind of sound that made me think about sounds she might make in other contexts if she ever trusted me enough.
"Oh," she breathed. Then she took another bite, bigger this time. Dipped the corner in the soup. Made the sound again.
I focused on my burger and definitely not on the way her tongue caught a drop of soup on her lower lip.
"My mother used to make this," she said suddenly, surprising me. She'd mentioned her mother exactly once before—at our first dinner, talking about her grandmother. "Grilled cheese with tomato soup. Called it 'sick day food.' Said it could cure anything from a cold to a broken heart."
"Did it?" I kept my voice casual, not wanting to spook her out of sharing.
She took another bite, considering. "The soup helped. The attention helped more." A pause. "She used to cut the crusts off even though my father said it was wasteful."
She was giving me more pieces. Bigger ones now. Her mother who'd died too young. The attention she'd craved and lost. The way food could be love if someone cared enough to make it that way.
"I'm sorry you lost her," I said. Inadequate words for inadequate circumstances.
"My father got worse after she died." She dipped her sandwich again, watching the soup drip. "Like she'd been the only thing keeping him human. Without her, he just became . . . well, you know what he is."
A monster. She didn't say it, but we both heard it.
She ate steadily, methodically, like her body had finally remembered it needed fuel. Half the sandwich. Most of the soup. Sips of egg cream that left foam on her upper lip that she'd lick away unconsciously. Each bite seemed to unwind something in her shoulders, her spine, the careful way she'd been holding herself since the wedding.
"Thank you," she said when her plate was mostly empty. "For today. For—" She gestured vaguely at the remains of lunch, the booth, the world outside the penthouse. "—not making me sit in that place thinking about everything bad."
The words hit like a slap. Everything bad. That's what she thought. That our marriage was bad, that not consummating it was bad, that somehow she'd failed by not spreading her legs for a stranger who'd confessed unwanted attraction.
"Nothing is bad." My voice came out harder than intended, firm enough that she looked up from her plate. "You're safe. Your father has no power here. And last night—" I made myself continue even though the words felt like chewing glass. "—was fine. More than fine. We did exactly what we both needed to do. Which was nothing."
She studied me with those dark eyes that saw too much. "You don't believe that."
"I do."
"You wanted—"
"What I want doesn't matter if you don't want it too." I leaned forward slightly, needing her to understand this. "Consent isn'tjust about saying yes, Anya. It's about wanting to say yes. Being ready to say yes. And you weren't. Aren't. Maybe never will be. That's okay."
