Page 57 of Bratva Bride
He folded himself onto the floor with surprising grace for someone his height, and I joined him, the carpet soft enough that sitting felt like floating. We ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, but I kept stealing glances at him. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his fingers wrapped around his coffee mug. The way morning light turned his gray eyes almost silver.
"What would you like to do today?" he asked, and even that simple question carried weight—the novelty of someone caring about my preferences.
"I don't know," I admitted, then quickly added, "not in a bad way. There's just—so many options. We could kayak to see turtles? Or the private beach? Or..."
"Or we could stay here and color," he offered without judgment. "Read stories. Swim in our pool. There's no agenda except what makes you happy."
A knock interrupted, soft and professional. "Mr. Volkov? It's Aisha."
The resort manager was everything composed elegance—silk hijab in ocean blues, linen dress that looked effortless butprobably cost more than most people's rent, smile that managed to be both warm and professionally distant.
"I wanted to review your week's bookings," she said, consulting an iPad with the same focus Ivan gave his spreadsheets. "Tomorrow afternoon, couples' spa treatment—full body massage, mineral soak. Thursday evening, private beach dinner at sunset. Full access to our little library and craft room whenever you'd like—just call, and we'll ensure complete privacy."
She looked at me then, and something in her expression softened. "But please, nothing is mandatory. Your villa is completely private, and we're here only when needed. The beauty of Velaa is that you can have everything or nothing, whichever brings peace."
After she left, I caught Ivan watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Satisfaction mixed with something deeper, hungrier.
"You planned all this," I said, not really a question. "With the same precision you use for—for everything else."
"I plan everything that matters," he said simply.
The words hit like physical impact. I mattered. My happiness warranted strategic planning, resource allocation, the full force of Ivan Volkov's considerable intellect.
Before I could second-guess myself, I leaned across the breakfast tray and pressed my lips to his cheek. Meant to be quick, grateful, chaste. But his skin was warm, and he smelled like coffee and coconut sunscreen, and suddenly my body was cataloging wants I'd been suppressing.
I pulled back to find his eyes dark, pupils dilated despite the bright morning.
"Anya—"
"I want more," I said, the words escaping before courage failed. "Not just—not just Daddy and Little. I want the other part too. The physical part. I want to be your wife in all the ways."
His exhale was shaky, controlled. "Are you sure?"
I thought about his hands tucking me in last night. His voice reading stories on the plane. This room full of carefully chosen childhood treasures. The way he looked at me like I was worth protecting and corrupting in equal measure.
"I'm sure," I whispered, and meant it down to my bones.
Thepurpleswimsuithadseemed modest in the privacy of the changing room—full coverage, athletic cut, nothing that screamed "look at me." But standing on our villa's deck with Ivan's eyes tracking my movement, I felt naked despite the lycra. Every place the fabric touched became hyperaware—the way it pulled slightly across my chest when I breathed, how it clung to my hips, the high cut of the legs that suddenly seemed designed to torment rather than provide coverage.
Ivan emerged from the main bedroom in simple black trunks that should have been unremarkable but absolutely weren't. I'd known he was fit—the tailored suits hadn't hidden that—but knowing and seeing were different creatures entirely. His chest was lean muscle over sharp lines, a dusting of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband, abs that belonged on someone who definitely didn't spend eighteen hours a day staring at spreadsheets.
"Ready?" he asked, and his voice carried new weight after my confession. Like we both knew the rules had shifted but hadn't figured out the new parameters yet.
The pool was heated to perfection—warm enough to slip into without shock, cool enough that the tropical heat didn't make it feel like soup. But it was the slide that transformed me into someone I didn't recognize. The first trip down was tentative, testing. The second came with a small squeak of surprise at the speed. By the third, I was squealing like an actual child, hitting the water with graceless splashes that sent waves across the pristine surface.
Ivan had claimed a large flamingo float, lounging with an ease that seemed calculated to kill me. Water droplets caught in his chest hair, turning it into a map I wanted to trace with my fingers. Or my tongue. The thought made me miss the ladder on my fourth climb, earning a scraped shin and his immediate attention.
"I'm fine," I said quickly, but he was already moving, abandoning the float to examine the minor wound with the focus he usually reserved for contracts.
"Just a scrape," he confirmed, but his thumb traced the skin next to it, and every nerve in my leg started firing in patterns that had nothing to do with pain.
"Want to try the rings?" I asked, needing distraction before I did something stupid like climb him instead of the slide.
We tossed inflatable rings back and forth with manufactured competitiveness, though Ivan kept letting me win with increasingly obvious throws. The pool toys were ridiculous—a rainbow unicorn, a donut with sprinkles, a dolphin that looked judgmental—but playing with them unlocked something in my chest. Permission to be silly. To splash and squeal and not care about dignity.
Which is why I didn't think before sending a deliberate wave of water directly at Ivan's face.
He sputtered, wiping his eyes with an expression of shock that quickly morphed into something predatory.
