Page 41 of Bratva Bride
My voice cracked on the last word, but I forced myself to continue.
"And you treated me like I couldn't be trusted to make that decision. Like my consent wasn't enough. Like I was too broken to know my own mind."
Silence stretched between us. One breath. Two. Three. Four—the rhythm he'd taught me, though neither of us was counting now.
"You're right," he said finally. No deflection. No justification. Just simple acknowledgment. "I'm sorry. I was so focused on not being another man who took advantage that I ended up taking away your agency instead. That wasn't fair."
The apology hit harder than rejection had. Because he meant it. Because he saw what he'd done and named it without excuse.
"I'm here, Anya." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Whenever you're ready. However you need me. As your husband, your roommate, your friend, your—whatever you decide. But it has to be your decision. Not mine. Not the treaty's. Yours."
The words hung between us like a bridge I could choose to cross or not. No pressure. No expectation. Just possibility, offered with open hands.
The intercom's buzz shattered the moment, harsh and electronic against the morning quiet. We both froze—me still curled in the Eames chair with my knees touching his, him on the coffee table like a therapist who'd gotten too close to his patient.
Ivan stood, the movement controlled but reluctant, and crossed to the panel by the elevator. His finger hovered over the button for a heartbeat before pressing it.
"Yes?"
"It's Clara and Eva." Clara's voice crackled through the speaker, bright with intention. "We're here to see our new sister!"
His eyes found mine across the room, a question in those gray depths. Did I want this? Was I ready for his sisters-in-law when I was still raw from our conversation, from my sleepless night, from the weight of almost-understanding between us?
I nodded. Small movement, but he caught it.
"Come up," he said into the intercom, then pressed the button that would grant them elevator access.
We had maybe ninety seconds before they arrived. Ninety seconds where we stood on opposite sides of his living room, trying to figure out what we were to each other now. I'd asked to find out what I was ready for. He'd agreed. But neither of us knew what that meant in practical terms.
The elevator chimed, and then Clara and Eva spilled into the penthouse like sunshine cutting through fog. Clara moved with her usual quiet confidence, designer jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people's rent. Eva was softer—leggings and an oversized Columbia University hoodie that might have been Dmitry's, her lavender hair pulled into a messy bun.
They both carried coffee cups from the expensive place three blocks over, and Clara pressed one into my hands before I could protest.
"Vanilla latte," she announced. "Extra shot. You look like you need it."
The warm cup felt like an anchor in my shaking hands. The coffee smelled safe, normal, like the world outside this penthouse where everything was complicated and charged.
"Girls' day," Clara continued, setting her own cup on the side table with decisive movement. "We're kidnapping you. Ivan, you're not invited."
"Where?" My voice came out smaller than intended. Cautious.
"Shopping," Eva said, but something flickered in her expression. A careful kind of anticipation that said shopping wasn't quite accurate. Maybe shopping was code. Maybe this was another test, another transaction, another—
"Trust us?" Clara's voice gentled, and she extended her hand toward me. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just offering.
I looked at Ivan, needing something I couldn't name. Permission? Reassurance? A reason to say no?
"They won't hurt you," he said quietly. "Promise."
But there was something else in his expression. Knowledge, maybe. Like he knew exactly where they were taking me and had opinions about it but wouldn't voice them. His jaw worked slightly—that tell I'd started recognizing meant he was holding words back.
"Okay," I heard myself say.
Forty minutes later, after a car ride filled with Clara's chatter about everything except where we were going, we stood on Court Street in Brooklyn. The neighborhood was different from Tribeca's glass and steel—older buildings, tree-lined streets, the kind of shops that had been here since before Brooklyn became trendy.
Clara led us past a vintage clothing store, a used bookshop that made my fingers itch to explore, a café with mismatched chairs visible through foggy windows. Then she stopped in front of a storefront painted soft lavender, with "Little Haven" scripted in gold letters across the awning.
My breath caught.
