Page 20 of Bratva Bride

She nods so hard I think her head might fall off. “Can we stay longer? Please?”

I nod once. “As long as you want.”

Her smile falters for just a second. “Do you think Nikolai gets to have a birthday cake wherever he is?”

The question hits like a punch to the ribs. I crouch down, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But I hope he does. I hope someone made it special for him.”

She looks at me, solemn, her small hand finding mine. “Do you think he misses us?”

I squeeze gently. “I know he does.”

That seems to satisfy her for now. She leans in and kisses my cheek before darting back to the playground, joining the other children like that moment never happened.

But it happened to me.

I rise slowly and turn to walk back. Nadya’s eyes are on me when I reach the bench. She says nothing, but I know she saw. I sit beside her.

“She asked about him,” I say quietly.

Nadya doesn’t look away from the children. “I figured she would.”

“She misses him.”

“So do we.”

I glance at her. “That’s not all, though, is it?”

She finally turns to me, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“You’re planning something.”

“I’m always planning something.”

I give a faint snort. “That’s not a denial.”

She tilts her head, eyes on the field again. “You don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

But she just smiles, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s something simmering underneath—anger, exhaustion, maybe guilt. I can’t tell anymore. I used to know her. Now I know a version of her that’s always two moves ahead, always guarded.

“I don’t want to waste my breath if you’re just going to shoot it down,” she says flatly.

“Shoot what down, Nadya?” I snap. “You say we’re in this together, but you’re always ten steps ahead, never letting me see the board.”

She narrows her eyes. “Maybe because I’m tired of explaining myself. Tired of asking for permission.”

I sit forward, elbows on my knees. “Is that what you think this is? Me trying to control you?”

She lets out a short breath. “No. This is you pretending you don’t still want control. Over everything. Over me.”

“That’s not fair.”

She leans closer. “Neither is waking up every morning wondering if our son is alive or dead.”

My jaw tightens. “You think I don’t wake up with that same thought?”

“You act like you’re the only one grieving.”