Page 41 of Owned Bratva Bride

What is she doing to me?

Chapter 9 – Marielle

After watching Eduard play the grand piano that one night, I hesitated to go to the large room. I ignored the call of the instrument I used to love playing because I didn’t want to risk repeating that night.

I didn’t want the soft feeling that fluttered in my chest as I watched him produce those beautiful sounds. I didn’t like the way I was beginning to see him as a man, without the criminal mask he always wore.

But I found myself going into that room again.

Eduard wasn’t there. I walked up to the piano, sat in the chair, but didn’t play. I went through the sheet music that looked like it had seen many years. The neatness of the handwritten scripts didn’t surprise me much. Eduard looked like the type who couldn’t ever be caught doing anything sloppily; his level gaze and smooth walking steps told me that much.

I left shortly after, my hand not touching the keys.

I headed over to the kitchen, following the directions Agatha had given me earlier.

The kitchen was bigger than the room I slept in. I snuffed out my amazement with the thought that they were criminals who had too much money.

There were two gray and white marble islands, each surrounded by a few small chairs. To the left, a deep freezer stood next to a large standing refrigerator. A marble countertop ran along the wall beside the refrigerator. Two sinks extended into a countertop that reached the end of the walls facing the doorway I stood glued to. To the far right were the gas cookers and ovens.

Feeling the curious eyes of the lady mixing some kind of yellowish dough on the island, I took a cautious step into the kitchen.

From the slip in her chef’s cap, I could see she was a redhead. She was, at least, a few inches taller and looked a few years older, too.

“Who are you?’ she questioned in a not-so-friendly voice.

“Hi. I—”

“Marielle!” Agatha’s voice interrupted mine.

She closed the oven and walked over to me.

“Hi. I didn’t know you’d be busy. I’ll leave now. I shouldn’t disturb.”

“Disturb? Come off it,” she argued, waving a dismissive flour-covered hand. “We don’t mind the company. Besides, you could learn about those meals you always compliment. Or maybe give us a hand with one of two.”

Before I could think of an exit strategy, she turned to the other lady beside the oven.

“This is Marielle,” she told her.

“Oh,” the lady uttered, smiling. “I’m Sofia.”

“Hi, Sofia.”

Returning her smile was unconscious; she seemed like a nice person. Her brown eyes were a shade darker than her hair. Unlike Agatha and the other lady, she didn’t wear an apron or a cap.

“That’s Mila,” Agatha revealed, gesturing toward the other lady.

“Mila,” she called, making the lady turn toward us with a straight expression. “This is Marielle.”

“We’ve met,” was Mila’s curt reply.

“I thought you were…” Sofia uttered, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “Older.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t mind me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine.”