Page 70 of Bratva Bride
"Your face is asymmetrical," she observed quietly. "Your left eyebrow is slightly higher. There's a tiny scar here—" her finger found a mark near my temple from a childhood fall "—and your ears aren't quite even."
"Are you cataloging my flaws?" I asked, amused. The thought of anyone else talking about a bratva officer like this was absurd.
"I'm cataloging you," she corrected. "All of you. The perfect imperfections."
When she introduced textures, her choices were deliberate. Silk against my palm, but she traced it up my forearm too, making me shiver. Water dropped precisely on my pulse points—wrists, throat, the spot behind my ear that made me inhale sharply. She was learning me even through this exercise, filing away data for later use.
The trust falls came next, and something shifted in Anya's entire demeanor. The intellectual analysis dissolved, replaced by something younger, more free. Dr. Kamala had us start small—sitting falls, catching each other from inches away. But when we moved to standing, Anya in full little space, falling backward into my arms, her laughter was pure gold.
"Again!" she said after the third catch, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Please, Daddy?"
The other couples smiled at her enthusiasm. Even the nervous newer couple relaxed, seeing how natural this could be. I caught her again and again, never letting her fall more than necessary,always there exactly when needed. Her trust was absolute, and that responsibility sat in my chest like something sacred.
"Now movement," Dr. Kamala announced. "Not formal dancing. Just moving together. Littles, let yourselves be moved. Be lifted if that feels safe. Spin, sway, whatever brings joy."
The music she played was wordless, something between classical and ambient. I stood, offered Anya my hands, and when she took them, I lifted her straight up. Her squeal of delight made everyone laugh. I spun with her lifted, her feet dangling, her hands gripping my shoulders but not from fear—from joy.
When I set her down, she immediately pressed close, and we swayed together. Not really dancing, just moving, her head against my chest, my arms around her. I could feel her heartbeat, rapid but steady, and when I lifted her again to spin, her laughter filled the pavilion like birdsong.
The body mapping exercise required more vulnerability than I'd expected. We took turns tracing each other's outlines on massive paper, and then came the harder part—filling those shapes with colors representing emotions.
Anya worked on mine with focused intensity, choosing each color deliberately. Gold for my heart "because you're precious," she explained quietly. Purple for my hands "because they're gentle even when they're being stern." Blue-gray for my eyes "like storms that keep me safe, not storms that destroy." Red for my mind "because it's brilliant and never stops protecting."
When she showed me the finished piece, I had to swallow hard against unexpected emotion. She'd drawn me not as I saw myself—calculating, cold, controlled—but as she saw me. Someone whose entire being was oriented toward protection and care. Someone worthy of all these warm colors.
My drawing of her was similar in its revelation. Soft pinks and purples for most of her body—gentleness and little space. But her heart was deep red, and when she asked why, I said,"Because you're the bravest person I know. That heart survived twenty-six years of being told it was worthless and still chose to trust. Still chose to love."
The word love hung between us, not quite claimed but clearly implied.
"Time for partner appreciation," Dr. Kamala said, and suddenly the pavilion felt too small for what was about to happen. "Look into your partner's eyes. Speak three truths. Not compliments—truths. Things you need them to know."
Anya's eyes found mine, and even with the other couples doing the same exercise, it felt like we were alone. She took a shaky breath.
"You make me feel safe," she said, each word deliberate and clear. "Not just physically safe, but emotionally safe. Safe to be little. Safe to be broken. Safe to heal."
My throat was closing, but she wasn't done.
"You make me feel seen. Not just looked at, but seen. All the messy parts, all the scared parts, all the parts I tried to hide."
She paused, and I watched her gather courage for the last truth.
"You make me feel loved."
The word hit like lightning, restructuring everything. She hadn't said "cared for" or "protected" or any safer alternative. She'd said loved. Present tense. Active. Current.
"My turn," I managed, my voice rougher than intended. "You're the bravest person I know. Not fearless—brave. There's a difference, and you live in that difference every day."
Her eyes were wet, but she held my gaze.
"You're brilliant beyond measure. Not just intellectually, though that too. But brilliant in how you've survived. How you've chosen to trust. How you're rebuilding yourself one colored pencil at a time."
The last truth formed before I could stop it, pulled from somewhere deeper than strategy or planning.
"You're everything I didn't know I needed."
The words landed between us like a confession. Because that's what they were—admission that she'd reorganized my entire existence without trying. That my carefully controlled life had been missing something fundamental, and that something was her.
Around us, other couples were crying, overcome by their own truths. But I only saw Anya, the way tears rolled down her cheeks while she smiled, the way her hand found mine and held on like I might disappear if she let go.
