Page 61 of Bratva’s Vow (Bratva’s Undoing #2)

WREN

T he wet, unrelenting assault of a dog’s tongue against my cheek woke me up.

“Jellybean,” I groaned, trying to burrow deeper into the pillow. No use. The little ball of fur was determined. His tail thumped like a drumroll on the mattress, the bed shaking with his excitement.

“Okay, okay.” I laughed, voice still scratchy with sleep. “I’m up, you lunatic.”

Jellybean barked once—happy, triumphant—and launched himself into a full-body cuddle, paws planted on either side of my ribs as he licked my neck. I squirmed and laughed harder, breathless and helpless to fight him off.

“Today’s my birthday,” I reminded him through giggles. “You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

Another bark.

This was Jellybean’s version of being nice. He sprang off, his paws making a soft thud as he hit the floor and pranced around the room, each bound full of joy at my awakening. Sighing, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

“Fine, I’m up.” I ruffled his fur as I stretched out. “Let me use the toilet. Then we can go find our master.”

He perked up at master , tail wagging harder.

I should probably stop referring to Maxim as that.

It was ridiculous how quickly Jellybean responded to that word, like he hadn’t spent the last few months being thoroughly spoiled by said master.

Like he wasn’t allowed up on couches and beds and Maxim’s lap, despite all his talk of discipline and training.

Jellybean had Maxim wrapped around his curly little paw. Just like me.

With a mock salute to Jellybean, who kept up his excited prancing, I ambled into the bathroom.

My reflection in the mirror was as disheveled as expected after being roused by the most enthusiastic alarm clock in existence.

Bed hair, rumpled pajamas, and one very prominent slobber patch on my cheek courtesy of Jellybean.

Gross.

As I stepped out of the bathroom minutes later, Jellybean was waiting patiently by the door, his tail wagging a steady rhythm against the floor. How he managed to contain his boundless energy for those few moments was beyond me.

“All right, furball. Let’s find Daddy.”

I padded through the house, dog at my heels, sun already pouring gold across the kitchen floor. The air smelled like roasted garlic and something warm and buttery and faintly sweet. My stomach gave an appreciative growl.

Maxim Morozov, Bratva Pakhan, alleged monster, stood barefoot at the stove in a soft gray T-shirt, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, a spatula in one hand and a little smudge of flour on his jaw.

He was plating pancakes with the kind of concentration most people reserved for defusing bombs .

Jellybean barked once and trotted over, circling Maxim’s feet, then settling at the corner of the kitchen mat like he was claiming his post.

Maxim didn’t even look up. “Good morning, birthday boy,” he said, voice quiet but warm. “I don’t know why I try to surprise you with breakfast in bed anymore. You always ruin it.”

I smiled, watching him for a second longer.

Just… taking him in. The man who ran a criminal empire with an iron fist now kept a recipe journal and fretted over whether I was drinking enough electrolytes.

The same man who’d held me together when I was too afraid to eat, who’d sat beside me while I cried over bland hospital food, who’d researched every trace mineral and detox protocol like his life depended on it.

He’d learned to cook for me. These days, if he didn’t prepare it himself, the food came from a tiny roster of vetted chefs who probably feared for their lives if they oversalted the potatoes. He’d gotten that careful. That controlling. That loving.

And honestly? I adored it.

One thing I’d never prepared for was the way being poisoned would affect my eating habits.

For a while, I’d been terrified of eating in public.

I wouldn’t eat from anyone, including our friends.

Thankfully, they hadn’t been offended. I’d just been too traumatized by the time I’d spent in the hospital, all because we let someone else prepare our meals.

So Maxim, the man who didn’t have a domestic bone in his body, learned to cook. Now every morning I woke up to the delicious aroma of pancakes or toast or something warm that was being prepared just for me.

I walked over and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, resting my head against his broad back.

“You can’t blame me this time.” I nuzzled his shoulder. “Jellybean woke me up. You left the door open. ”

Maxim sighed. “It’s okay. Probably won’t work to have breakfast in bed anyway. He’d make a mess everywhere.”

“Smells amazing, though.”

“It’s lemon ricotta pancakes. With fresh blueberries. And real maple syrup, not that fake corn syrup stuff you tried to sneak into the cart last week.”

“Busted,” I muttered.

He flipped the last pancake onto the stack, then turned in my arms, brushing my hair back from my face. “Happy birthday, kroshka.”

I leaned into his touch, my voice soft. “Thank you.”

“You’re easy to love when you’re not being a menace,” he teased, but his eyes—those cold, brutal, beautiful eyes—looked at me like I was the best thing he’d ever done with his life.

We ate on the patio overlooking the pool of our new house, sun warming our skin, legs tangled beneath the small table.

He fed me bites off his fork when I got too lazy to lift mine.

I stole sips from his coffee, even though mine was the same.

Jellybean jumped into the pool and ignored us while Maxim grumbled about that damn dog he was going to take to the pound one of these days because he didn’t listen.

“What do you want to do today?” Maxim asked.

I scrunched up my face. “You’re asking me that like you haven’t already decided.”

“Decided what?”

I had to give him credit. He had his poker face on. If I didn’t know him well enough, I would have thought he had no plans for my birthday.

“Very funny. What are we doing for my birthday? I hope you didn’t spend too much on my gift.”

Maxim took a slow sip from his mug, eyes fixed on mine over the rim like he was reading me for tells. “Well,” he said eventually, “I figured I’d save myself the trouble. ”

“The trouble?” I echoed.

He shrugged, setting the mug down. “You always say you don’t want anything. Always telling me I spoil you and that being with me is enough. So… no gifts this year.”

My fork paused halfway to my mouth.

“No gift?” I repeated, trying to keep the smile on my face. “Right. Of course. That’s… fine.”

But it wasn’t. Not really.

Because yes, I had always said I didn’t need anything.

Had rolled my eyes at designer watches, scoffed at limited-edition sneakers, and told him time and time again that I didn’t want him to spoil me.

But the truth was, I’d gotten used to it.

Not the money. Not the luxury. Him. His care.

His ridiculous, over-the-top, I-will-move-the-sky-for-you kind of love.

And now he was saying he didn’t have a gift?

My stomach dipped in that irrational, childish way. Not because I needed something shiny. Just… the idea that he hadn’t thought about it. That maybe he didn’t feel the need to make a big deal. Although it was my first birthday of us being together.

I must’ve gone too quiet because he was suddenly smiling.

That smug bastard smile.

“You’re disappointed,” he said like he’d caught me red-handed.

“I’m not,” I lied.

“You are.” He leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “It’s written all over your pouty little face. What happened to ‘I don’t need anything, Maxim, your love is enough’?” He mocked my voice, horribly. “‘Material things don’t matter to me, babe.’”

“Oh my god,” I groaned, hiding behind my hands. “I never say babe like that.”

“You say all of it. Multiple times. So I took you at your word. ”

I peeked between my fingers. “You really didn’t get me anything?”

A beat of silence.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small velvet box, and slid it across the table.

“You’re such an asshole,” I whispered, even as my chest swelled with relief and heat.

“Open it.”

I picked up the box, my fingers tingling with anticipation. It felt fancy. Too fancy for breakfast on the patio, barefoot with syrup on my fingers.

I cracked it open and… stared.

Inside was an anklet. But not the kind you buy at a department store on a whim.

No, this was delicate and expensive. White gold maybe or platinum set with tiny diamonds.

A fine chain that shimmered in the morning light.

And right in the center hung a tiny charm in the shape of a lock, the letter M carved into it in script.

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My throat got all tight and weird, like something had slipped past my defenses without asking for permission.

Maxim watched me like he was cataloging every twitch of my face. “If you tell me it’s too much, I can trade it in for a pair of socks.”

I huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I love it.”

His grin spread, slow and sinful. “Dainty, isn’t it?”

God. He knew what he was doing to me. I swallowed around the lump in my throat, lifted my leg, and rested my bare foot in his lap. “Put it on for me?”

Maxim took the anklet from the box and fastened it around my ankle with surprising gentleness. “It doesn’t have a tracker in it. Does it?” I asked.

Maxim fell silent. He skimmed his fingers along my skin like I might vanish if he touched me too hard. Once it was on, he thumbed the tiny charm, then leaned down and kissed the inside of my ankle.

“Maxim.”

“Don’t ask if you won’t like the answer, kroshka.”

Was I surprised? No. We had a camera mounted in our bedroom even though I’d promised him months ago that I would never leave him again. But I didn’t mind because it was hot watching Maxim fuck me on video. I watched those videos a little more than I probably should.