Page 28 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
“I thought the spousal privilege meant it didn’t matter what I said?”
“You can still tell the world everything. It just means it can’t be used in a court of law. But the damage you would do to my reputation, my family, and my business?” He shoots me a look. “So no, you cannot call your parents.”
“I have no incentive to stay quiet,” I retort, seeking to push his buttons in some way just to get his reaction. He doesn’t rise to it, though. He simply continues cooking. Five minutes later, he presses a warm bowl filled with fragrant rice, chicken pieces, peppers, and a creamy red sauce that tangs on my tongue after two forkfuls.
“Good?” he asks from the opposite counter where he leans with his own bowl.
I ignore him and shovel the meal down like it’s my last one on earth. One taste unlocked how truly ravenous I am for decent, good food, and within two minutes, the bowl is empty and my belly is full.
“More?”
I shake my head, lapping up a drop of sauce from my thumb. “No. I shouldn’t.”
“Drink?”
Our eyes meet. “Do you have soda?”
He nods and retrieves a can from the fridge. It’s ice cold in my hands and the hiss when I crack the seal sends a satisfying shiver down my spine. “So, what’s next?”
He pauses eating. “What do you mean?”
“I want to go home. You won’t let me. I want to call my parents. You won’t let me. You forced me to marry you, and now you’re feeding me like we’re friends after yourdadtried to kill me.”
He nods once. “Your point?”
“Are you just going to keep me locked up here until I forget what you did?”
His eyes narrow faintly, and the low light accentuates how thick his lashes are. “I’ll deal with my father. He won’t bother you again.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to. I know my intentions.”
“But you don’t know why you didn’t kill me and get all of this over with.”
“Things are more complicated than you know.”
“How so?” I demand as he takes my empty bowl from me. “I want to go home. That isn’t going to change. You murdered someone, and since you won’t trust me, the only way to guarantee I don’t talk is to kill me, which you won’t do, so what kind of game is this?”
“You need rest.” Maxim speaks with the softness of a lover, which infuriates me even more. How can this cold, dangerous murderer flip the switch so quickly and start caring for me with aheavenly bath and good food? How can he touch and talk to me like I’m not suffering because of him?
“I’m not tired,” I snap stubbornly, draining my soda can as an act of defiance.
“Hollie. There’s a lot going on, but all I can tell you is that our marriage is the best protection I can give you. I don’t kill without reason.”
“I saw what you did,” I snap. “I saw that man. No one deserves that, and I don’t deserve this!”
He sets his bowl down and fixes me with a small, polite smile. “You can take the bedroom at the end on the right.”
That’s it. Our conversation is over and I’ve learned barely anything. As infuriating as it is, I’m left to my own devices and with nothing else to keep the exhaustion at bay, I fold quickly. I barely make it to bed before my eyes close and I sink into a deep slumber wrapped up in blankets and pillows that are so soft, they likely cost more than my rent.
My dreams are turbulent. There’s blood over everything and a darkness that extends no matter how far or how fast I run. Every time I feel restriction around my throat, Maxim appears and he saves me from it, but I always end up back in that darkness, running and running and running.
“Hollie?”
Suddenly, I have something to run toward. A light that appears between the trees that promises warmth while guiding me back to civilization.
“Hollie?”
