Page 10 of Bribed & Bred By The BRATVA (Bred By The BRATVA #9)

I’ve dealt with weapons shipments, border bribes, men who’d slit throats for half a pay check. None of it has ever made me feel as stupid as standing in my own kitchen asking a cook to teach me how to cook eggs.

“You want me to teach you?” he says, eyebrows climbing like he misheard.

“Yes,” I bite out. Then softer, because I know how ridiculous it sounds, “Something simple. Something she’ll like.”

His eyes flicker, a gleam of amusement he’s too smart to show outright. “The girl?”

“My wife,” I correct. I don’t care that the papers are barely dry. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He wipes his hands on his apron, still staring like I’ve sprouted horns. “Well. You’re not ready for soufflés. So Spanish omelette it is. Potatoes, eggs, onion. Even you can’t ruin that.”

I glare, but he doesn’t shrink. Old staff rarely do. They’ve seen me bleed and they’ve seen me kill, but not one of them has seen me peel potatoes. Until now.

He shows me the motions. Thin slices. Slow cooking in oil until they’re soft. “Not too fast,” he says when I nearly take the top of my thumb off. “You’re feeding a wife, not killing an enemy.”

“Same grip,” I mutter. “Different angle.”

“Different everything,” he grumbles back. But I do as he says. I’m not above learning when it matters.

The kitchen fills with the smell of onion, warm and sweet. My stomach clenches, not with hunger but with anticipation. I turn the omelette carefully, biting back a curse when the edge sticks. The cook makes a noise in his throat but doesn’t step in. He knows better. This is mine to get right.

Finally, it slides out golden onto the plate. Whole. Not broken. Not ruined. My chest tightens with a pride I should be ashamed of.

“Edible,” the cook declares. Then he mutters in Russian about miracles and leaves me to it.

Good. I don’t want witnesses.

I set the table myself. No silver domes. No array of staff. Just the plate, some bread, coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I want her to know this didn’t pass through six pairs of hands. It came from mine.

I go to the bedroom and push the door open. She’s curled on the bed, one of the books I left stacked by the chair open in her hands. She looks up, startled. The line between her brows softens when she sees me, and something violent stirs in my chest at the sight of it easing.

“Come,” I say.

She hesitates, then sets the book aside and follows. Bare feet whispering against the floor, hem brushing her ankles. She’s still too thin, too tired, but she moves with a grace that makes me want to tear the world apart to keep it.

When she sees the table, she stops.

“You cooked?”

“Yes.” I round the table and pull out a chair for her, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this must look. “Spanish omelette. The cook says it’s edible.”

Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “You made this for me?”

“Yes.” I nod once, almost curt. “Sit. Eat.”

She lowers into the chair, lifts a fork, and takes a bite. Her eyes widen, her lips part, and a small sound escapes her throat. It’s not quite a moan but close enough to make my cock twitch.

“It’s good,” she says.

Relief blindsides me harder than a bullet. My shoulders loosen. I almost laugh, but I shove the sound down and cut into my own plate instead.

We eat. Her quickly at first, then slower when she realises I’m watching. I don’t bother pretending I’m not. My eyes are on her mouth, the curve of her throat, the way her lashes dip when she lifts another bite.

“You didn’t have to,” she says softly.

“I wanted to,” I answer. The truth tastes strange on my tongue. “I wanted it to be from me.”

She lowers her gaze, cheeks warming. And I know she felt it. The shift.

I lean back in my chair, fork abandoned, and study her. She looks smaller in my house, but not fragile. She bends, but she doesn’t break. She has bent her whole life and kept going. Now she’s bending toward me, even if she doesn’t realise it yet.

“You should smile more,” I say, almost absently.

Her eyes flick up, startled. “Why?”

“Because when you do, I feel like I’ve won something.”

She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me over her fork. Her mouth trembles at the corners, almost a smile, almost not. It’s enough.

The air between us thickens. I could reach across the table, haul her onto my lap, take her again before the plates are cold. My body wants it. But something in me, something I don’t recognise, holds me still.

I want her to finish the meal. I want her to taste every bite I made with my hands. I want her to know I can give her more than cages and commands.

When she sets her fork down, I rise and circle the table. She stiffens when I touch her shoulder, but she doesn’t pull away. I bend, brush my mouth against the crown of her head. Just a kiss. Gentle. Nothing more.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

The words hit me like a blade and a balm at once. No one thanks me. No one sees me as more than the sum of my violence.

I tilt her chin up so I can see her face. “Get used to it,” I murmur. “I’ll give you more.”

Her throat works as she swallows. She doesn’t look away.

My chest tightens. This is more dangerous than any bullet. Not because I could lose her, but because I can already feel myself falling into the fire of her, and I don’t want a way out.

She’s mine. My wife. My reason.

And God help anyone who thinks they can take her from me.