Page 12 of Sold to the Bratva (Sinful Mafia Daddies #2)

KATYA

T he sun kisses my skin with easy warmth, yet inside I shiver. Before last night I would have sworn the chill was pure indifference toward Isaac, but I can’t cling to that lie anymore. Last night proved I’m nowhere near indifferent to him.

The cold feels less like temperature and more like numbness.

Now that the adrenaline of the last few weeks has drained away, all that remains is emptiness.

I didn’t win. I’m married to Isaac. The papers are signed, the deed, quite literally, done.

Yet it doesn’t feel like a loss, and that unsettles me even more.

I hug my knees to my chest and settle in the shade of the stone gazebo as the garden explodes with too much color around me. It’s beautiful, quiet and peaceful in a way that feels almost cruel.

This is my home now, my life. If I want, I can spend every dawn sipping coffee in this garden, soaking up the colors. It sounds blissful, so why does it feel like a prison?

How can a garden be so breathtaking when my life is such a wreck?

I’m married. Isaac’s wife. I tried to stop it, but it was pointless. Yesterday I was still just me, still hoping today would never arrive. Now I sit in this ridiculously lush garden with a ring that feels like a shackle tightening around my finger.

But the game isn’t over. I could still make his life a living hell. Marriages end, and divorces happen every single day. I could turn so unpleasant, so demanding, so cold and withholding that he’d sprint to the nearest divorce lawyer.

But the most unsettling part is that I don’t want to torture him anymore.

I can’t stop thinking about him. Last night was so much more than I’d ever imagined my first time could be.

He was gentle, sweet, yet unbelievably thorough, worried about me, my happiness, my pleasure, even if it meant delaying his own.

I’ve never known a man who wasn’t immediately focused on getting off with or without me.

Isaac was different. He cherished me, and that shook me. Then there was the way he looked at me afterward. There wasn’t any smug triumph, nor a satisfied smirk at conquering a prize. He watched me with tenderness, with something dangerously close to love.

He can’t love me. I’m supposed to despise him. I told myself that from the start of this ridiculous scheme. He’s the enemy. Even if this wasn’t his idea, he still agreed to it, and that makes him just as culpable as my father.

I should hate him for that alone, should hate him for not turning me away when I walked the aisle in that gorgeous black gown, should hate him for being so tender and gentle when we both know that isn’t the man he usually is, which means he shows that side only to me.

And that might be the most terrifying part of all. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel wanted. He makes me want him. That just can’t happen.

A breeze sweeps through the garden, rustling the leaves and skimming over my bare shoulders, making me shiver.

I wish I did hate him. It would make this all so much easier.

I wish I could forget the way his lips ghosted over my skin, making me break out in goose bumps.

I wish I could stop thinking about the way his fingers moved so deftly inside me, like he was a musician and I was his composition.

I wish I didn’t know how his face looks when he lets himself go.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don’t want any of this. I don’t want to imagine him that way. I want control and clarity, two things he never gives me.

My phone buzzes on the bench beside me, jolting me out of my thoughts. I reach for it, blinking down at the screen.

Papa .

I hesitate before answering. This is my honeymoon, after all. What could he possibly want now?

“What?” I snap, not bothering to hide my annoyance at the interruption.

“Good morning, lapushka. How are you feeling today?” His voice manages to be warm and sharp at once, happy yet faintly reproachful.

I take my time considering his question. Should I lie and tell him I’m miserable? Should I tell him I can’t stand my husband and will never forgive him for this? Or do I tell the truth, the truth I barely understand myself? Because so far, being married to Isaac isn’t awful.

“I’m fine,” I mutter at last, too tired and tangled in thought to muster a sharper retort.

“You sound tired,” he says, sympathy threading his voice. I roll my eyes.

“I didn’t sleep much,” I answer before realizing I’m basically telling my father my new husband kept me up last night. This is so not a conversation I want to have.

A knowing hum reverberates through the line, and I roll my eyes again.

“Big day yesterday,” he finally says, his voice a shade too tight.

“It was,” I agree. “Exhausting.”

“Married life can be like that.” He chuckles softly.

I trace the edge of a flower petal near my foot.

“Why did you really do this?” I blurt, done with polite theatrics. I played his game, did my part, the least he can do now is be honest.

There’s a beat of silence.

“I told you,” he says at last. “This marriage brings unity and peace between our families. Thanks to you, Katya, we now have a future without blood feuds. As the next generation, that’s all a father could want for his child.”

“You could have let me choose my own future,” I argue for the millionth time, the resentment bubbling in my chest.

If I can’t be angry at Isaac, I can sure as hell stay angry at my father.

“Isaac is many things,” he continues, “but unkind isn’t one of them. And he has the power to keep you safe, to keep our family safe.”

“I didn’t ask you to keep me safe,” I spit, venom sizzling in every syllable. “I just wanted the chance to choose a life that would make me happy.”

“I’m not having this conversation again, Katya,” he says sternly.

“You didn’t have to ask me to keep you safe.

That’s my job as your father. It always has been.

I’ve done plenty over the years to ensure your safety, things you never even knew about.

So don’t start complaining now just because your safety suddenly feels like an inconvenience. ”

“You married me off to a stranger!” I spit.

“Well, it looked to me like you two were getting on just fine last night,” he shoots back, his voice calm as death. “Seems to me you should be thanking me for finding you such a nice man.”

I have no response as my cheeks burn. Thank God he can’t see how right he is. Isaac was unbelievably good to me last night, and he is nice, no matter how much I wish he weren’t. Maybe Papa actually knew what he was doing, though I’ll never admit it.

“One more thing,” he adds, not waiting for the answer he knows I don’t have. “If you see or hear anything unusual about rival groups, let me know. We’re one big family now, and it’s our job to make sure the Kozlovs are looked after.”

My head throbs and my heart hammers. Of course he has to bring up business. My feelings are irrelevant next to the needs of the organization. I will always, always come second to him, even the day after my wedding.

I press my fingers to my temple, fighting back tears.

“Of course,” I answer dispassionately. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

“I know you will.”

The call cuts off as abruptly as it began, and I sit for a moment, staring at the flowers swaying in the breeze beyond the patio railing.

Maybe it’s better this way. Nothing I ever did mattered enough to make my father listen to what I wanted. Isaac may still be practically a stranger, but he seems to care at least. I could swear I heard him promise to protect me, though maybe I dreamed it.

“I thought I’d find you out here,” his low voice murmurs behind me.

My spine straightens on instinct, feeling like I’ve been caught. It’s silly, of course. He can’t possibly know that I was sitting out here thinking about him.

I glance over my shoulder. He approaches with his hands in his pockets, his white dress shirt slightly rumpled as if he’s been working, or pacing, or thinking too much, just like me.

“It’s a nice morning. I needed fresh air,” I say, turning away before he can read too much in my eyes.

“We’re not far from the city,” he teases. “The air isn’t that fresh.”

I shrug. “Fresher than inside.”

He stops beside the bench, leaf shadows flickering across his jaw and collarbone.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice softer now.

I nod, though I’m not sure the answer is yes.

His eyes narrow like he sees right through me. “Was that your father on the phone?”

Of course he noticed.

“It was,” I say simply. “He was just checking in.”

A flicker passes over his face, something unreadable, maybe suspicion, but he says nothing. I don’t know him well enough to guess what he’s thinking. For the first time it hits me. I have no idea how Isaac feels about my father. He might resent him as much as I do.

I can’t tell, and I’m not sure I want to.

All I feel is the ache swelling between us, as though last night never ended. It’s as if I’m still wrapped around him in the dark, whispering things I shouldn’t even want to say aloud.

His fingers graze mine on the table. It’s just a touch, but it’s enough to send a wave of heat up my arm.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs.

I swallow hard. “Me either,” I admit.

He takes a slow step closer, the edge of the table pressing against my ribs as he leans in. My breath catches in my throat, and every cell in my body seems to tilt toward him.

In a heartbeat his lips find mine. The kiss is nothing like last night, urgent and demanding, packed with everything we held back. There’s hunger, fear, and need. I rise, and he catches my waist, yanking me close until our bodies align.

His mouth claims mine as if to remind me I’m his wife now, and it works. I melt into him, surrendering every defense.

He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged against my skin.

“From this moment on, everything I own is yours,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with heat. “Whatever you desire, I’ll grant you.”

My heart pounds against my ribs and the first thought crashing through me is how much I want him.