Page 19 of A Baby for the BRATVA Boss
We work in silence for a while. Each time I reach up, his hand finds the small of my back to steady me. The touches are brief, practical, at least they should be, but every one leaves a trail of heat.
A knock sounds, and a moment later, Greta appears. She carries a tray with two mugs. “Hot chocolate,” she says. “And a bit of music, if you don’t mind.”
She sets the tray down and presses a button on the old stereo by the hearth. The first notes of a piano drift through the room, slow, tender, something from another decade.
“I’ll be leaving, now,Syn,” Greta says with a smile.
Yury nods, “Thank you, I’ll see you next week.”
I take a mug and blow on the surface. The steam curls up, rich and sweet. “Do you always get treated like royalty?”
He takes his cup, glancing at me over the rim. “Only Greta does. Our families have known each other forever, it seems.”
We sip in companionable quiet. Outside, snowflakes whirl against the window, catching the firelight. Inside, the tree begins to glow with gold lights wound between branches, red ribbons trailing like silk.
“It’s beautiful,” I say softly.
He sets his cup down and wraps his arms around me from behind. “You make everything beautiful,” he says against my ear.
I look up at him, and something in his face shifts, the control slipping for just a heartbeat. His gaze drops to my mouth, to the scar there that seems to have captured his attention. I lift onto my tip toes and kiss him softly. It’s still new to me, intimacy of any kind, but I hope the kiss conveys my gratitude.
When I break the kiss and sink back onto my heels, he watches for a moment before turning his attention back to the tree, pretending to fix a ribbon.
I reach up to help, stretching beside him. Our shoulders brush. “You missed a spot,” I murmur, tying a bow near his hand.
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
His eyes meet mine again, dark and steady. “You.”
The word settles between us like the quiet before snowfall, weightless, inevitable. I swallow, the air thick with everything we’re not saying.
The song changes to something softer, strings and piano weaving through the air. Yury steps back, studying the tree, then glances at me. “It’s done.”
“Not yet.” I find the final ornament, a small star, worn at the edges, and hold it out to him. “For the top.”
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine, then reaches up to place it carefully.
“Now it’s perfect,” he says.
I can’t tell if he means the tree or this moment. Maybe it’s both. At least that’s how it feels for me.
The room glows gold and red, our reflections flickering in the window.
I feel like a woman standing on the edge of something dangerous and beautiful. And I’m not sure I want to step back.
Yury
The hours pass without notice.
By the time the last candle burns low, the house feels different. Softer. The kind of quiet that comes after laughter. The echo of something good.
Sophia sits on the rug by the fire, legs folded beneath her, one hand wrapped around a mug. The lights from the tree throw gold shadows across her skin. She looks at peace, but her eyes keep finding mine.
“You never told me anything about yourself,” she says.
“There’s not much to tell.” I offer a half shrug.
