Page 60 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

Or maybe you’re still dreaming,a small voice sounds in my head.

The car is sleek and black, idling beneath the streetlight even though it’s not quite dark enough for them yet. No license plate visible. The windows are tinted black, darker than what’s legal, but that’s never stopped Konstantin before.

The inside smells like leather and cedar and something else. Him, maybe.

I slide into the back seat and let the silence settle around me. The doors click shut. Lev sits across from me in the rear-facing seat, watching me like I might disappear.

I think I fall asleep again—somewhere in the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road. I’m exhausted, wrung out. The last few days have bled me dry. Turns out growing a baby does that to you—takes every ounce of your energy.

When I wake up, the car has stopped outside of Konstantin’s townhouse. Lev gets out, opens my door, and waits.

As I step out onto the sidewalk, hesitating, this suddenly feels even more ridiculous: texting a crime lord about a nightmare.

“He will arrive shortly. If you need anything, I will be down in the security room. You can use the intercom or text me.” That modulated voice again; I watch as Lev turns away, leaving me in the foyer, and heads down to a lower level.

Text him? Obviously he doesn’t know about Konstantin’s rule—that he be theonlycontact in my phone. Still, it makes sense… if he’s going to have Lev watching out for me, practically stalking me, I might as well have the guy’s number.

Just in case.

Slipping my shoes off, I wander the townhouse, or at least the floor I’m on, before making my way to the kitchen. The nightmare has worn off as I once again take in the opulence of Konstantin’s home. It’s exquisite. Nana would havediedfor this kitchen.

She also would’ve died if she knew who I was dating. Or… sleeping with. Ugh.

The kitchen is gorgeous, but it’s lacking something, and I realize what it is right away. There’s a sudden, overwhelming urge togive back,and even as I begin opening drawers and rummaging around, I mutter to myself: “Must be the hormones. This is ridiculous.”

But I find aprons hanging in a closet perfectly flush with the wall, all the ingredients I need, all the tools. Of course, I’m assuming Konstantin has cooks, and they would without a doubt make sure all the necessities were here.

After staring into the massive refrigerator for a few mindless moments, trying to ignore the expensive champagne and the urge to down a glass (not allowed), I juggle some peaches against my belly and let them roll onto the counter.

It’s not long before I have the makings for a peach cobbler, and the kitchen looks like arealkitchen. And smells like it, thanks to the cinnamon. The oven warms and when it beeps I slide the cobbler in, dust my palms on the apron, and consider cleaning up.

In another surge of emotion, I let out a small, panicky laugh. God, this is so silly. I went from padding accounts for a construction company this morning to hair tied up in a messy bun, barefoot, covered in flour.

Like some kind of Stepford wife who wandered into a mafia hideout.

But I feel safe. Like the nightmare never happened, likeSalnever happened to me to begin with.

It’s terrifying.

And when I hear the door open and the unmistakable sound of Konstantin’s footsteps, the click of his heeled boots. My heart doesn’t leap in fear.

It… flutters.

When he steps into the kitchen, his eyes catch on mine immediately.

Then drop.

To the apron.

To the bump.

My stomach is just beginning to show, and I cover it self-consciously.

He stops walking, like I’ve knocked the air out of him.

“Audrey.”

It’s not a greeting. It’s a need.