Page 46 of Bratva Bride

“Let him sit down.”

I turn. Her face is unreadable again, but the faint tremor in her hand as she places a mug on the counter doesn’t escape me. She pours tea—not vodka, not whiskey, not the bourbon I know she’d rather be drinking—but tea. For herself. For him.

I say nothing, just move toward her, lowering my voice. “You should be resting.”

“I’ll rest after I find Nikolai.”

Her words are calm, too calm, and that scares me more than if she were screaming.

She brings Pyotr the mug and gestures to the couch. He lowers himself slowly, carefully, as though the weight of the months he spent hiding has suddenly caught up to him.

I stand by the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching every damn move.

“Where the hell have you been?”

She doesn’t look at me.

“I asked you a question,” I say quietly.

Nadya barely lifts her eyes from the teacup she’s rinsing in the sink. “I handled something.”

Handled something.That’s all I get?

I walk around the counter slowly, the floor cool beneath my bare feet, the silence between us stretching too long, too wide. Pyotr is still sitting on the couch, nursing that damn tea like he belongs here. I keep my voice even, but inside, I’m unraveling.

“Where exactly were you?”

She finally looks at me, chin tilted. “I told you. It’s done now.”

The same tone she uses with Mila when she doesn’t want to scare her.

I step closer and reach for her hands, wrapping mine around them. “Nadya.”

Her fingers are stiff in mine. Cold. Like they’re already pulling away.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” I murmur. “Not once.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

Her jaw tenses. “Does it matter?”

I stare at her, trying to find something—anything—in her face that isn’t this wall she’s built up again. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“I’m your husband,” I say low, my hands still around hers. “You think I don’t deserve to know where you went? What happened to you?”

Her lips press into a line.

Pyotr shifts slightly behind us, but I ignore him. I’m done putting on performances.

“Just talk to me,” I say. “Please.”

But she doesn’t. Not even a nod. Not even a lie this time. Just silence.

And that silence burns hotter than anything else she could’ve said.

I release her hands gently and step back. My mouth tastes like iron. I don’t trust myself to say anything else, not with her father sitting right there, not when I feel this…dismissed.