Page 58 of Bratva Bride
"Oh, kotyonok, you’ve got claws!" he said, voice dropping to that register that made my insides liquid. "You want to play?"
His retaliation was gentle—barely more than a flick of water—but it was the grin that came with it that undid me. Boyish and delighted and absolutely devastating. We splashed back and forth like children, except for the way his eyes tracked water running down my skin, except for how my breath caught when he stood in the shallow end and everything below his navel disappeared into rippling blue.
Then Marina fell in.
The splash was small, but my panic was instant and absolute. She was drowning, her stuffing would be ruined, she'd smell like chlorine forever, she'd—
"Hey, breathe." Ivan was there immediately, fishing Marina out with careful hands. "She's okay. Look—just wet. Like she went for a swim."
He wrung her out gently, gray fabric darkening but maintaining its shape. "She's machine washable, see? The tag says so. We'll let her dry in the sun, and she'll be perfect by dinner. Better, even—she'll smell like sunshine."
The casual competence of it, the complete lack of judgment about a twenty-six-year-old woman panicking over a stuffed whale, made my chest do complicated things. He set Marina on a lounge chair, arranging her carefully so she'd dry evenly, and I wanted to cry. Or kiss him. Or both.
"Lunch?" he suggested, and I nodded, not trusting my voice.
The regular menu was extensive, but my eyes went immediately to the "Little Menu" section. Mac and cheese made with three cheeses. Dinosaur nuggets (specified as "the good kind"). Fruit cut into stars and hearts.
"Mac and cheese," I said, then hesitated. "Is that—"
"I'm having the nuggets," Ivan interrupted, already marking his choices. "Want to share? Get both?"
We ate sitting on the deck's built-in benches, legs dangling in the pool, sharing bites like it was normal to feed each other overpriced comfort food while water evaporated from our skin in the tropical heat. Ivan ate dinosaur nuggets with the same focus he brought to everything, dissecting them along their anatomical lines.
"That's deeply weird," I informed him, stealing a t-rex.
"It's efficient," he countered, but his eyes were smiling. “And respectful to the majestic creatures.”
The sun and swimming and food combined into a weight that pulled at my eyelids. I meant to just rest for a moment on the lounge chair, maybe five minutes with my eyes closed. But the warmth was hypnotic, and Marina was drying next to me smelling like chlorine and happiness, and everything felt safe in a way that made staying conscious seem optional.
I woke to the sensation of hands on my skin—gentle, careful, methodical. Ivan was applying sunscreen to my exposed shoulder, the one that had shifted out of the umbrella's shadow while I slept. His touch was clinical, protective, but my half-awake brain cataloged it differently. The size of his hands. The careful pressure. The way he made sure to cover every inch that might burn.
"How long was I out?" I asked, voice rough with sleep.
"Two hours." He didn't stop his careful application, moving to my other arm. "You were tired. Your body needed it."
"You've been watching me sleep for two hours?"
"I've been reading," he said, but the book on his chair looked barely touched. "And making sure you didn't burn. You're pale enough to combust in direct sunlight."
The care was overwhelming. This man who ran financial empires had spent his afternoon monitoring my sun exposure, adjusting umbrellas, applying SPF like it was his most important task.
"Ivan?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
His hands stilled on my skin. "For sunscreen?"
"For making me feel safe enough to sleep in the open. For catching Marina. For eating dinosaur nuggets with me. For—" I gestured vaguely at everything, at nothing, at the impossible fact of him.
"Always," he said simply, and resumed his careful application of sunscreen, like protecting my skin was a privilege rather than a chore.
Theanxietyarrivedat12:47 AM like a rude dinner guest who'd gotten the time wrong—unexpected, unwelcome, but absolutely convinced it belonged here. I'd been sleeping peacefully in the regression room's daybed, Marina and Peanut standing guard, but suddenly my eyes snapped open and my chest went tight with formless dread.
What if this was temporary? What if Ivan got bored once the novelty wore off? What if I wasn't actually healing, just hiding in an expensive bubble that would pop the moment we returned to New York?
The thoughts multiplied like malignant cells—my father finding loopholes, the bratva deciding I wasn't worth protecting, Ivan realizing he'd married damaged goods that no amount of purple rooms and star pancakes could fix. My throat closed around air that had turned thick as honey.
