Page 75 of Bratva Baby

SOFIYA

“We still have work to do.”

The words come out rough against Anton’s throat, and for one second I think he’s going to laugh them off, roll me under him again, and ruin the rest of the night properly. Instead, he looks down at me with that wrecked, satisfied face of his, one arm still around my back under the throw, and says, “I know.”

All that does is make me love him more.

I stay where I am for another breath, warm and used and curled against his chest while the city glows through the windows and the papers we abandoned ten feet away keep waiting like they haven’t watched us make a complete disaster of the couch. My skin is still hot, my body still heavy in that blissed-out way that makes movement feel optional.

Then Maks pushes his way back into my head, and the softness breaks.

Anton feels the shift at once. “You’re thinking again,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You looked nicer when you weren’t.”

I tip my head back enough to see him. “That’s a terrible thing to say to a woman after sex.”

“It’s accurate.”

I glare at him. He kisses my forehead and pours me more water from the side table before I can decide whether to be offended or touched. I drink because he’s right, which is getting exhausting.

When I pass the glass back, he sets it down and drags the throw higher over my shoulders. “Talk.”

I tuck the blanket closed over my chest and shift so I’m facing him more fully. “If Varga’s gone, then Maks felt pressure somewhere he didn’t like.”

“Yes.”

“And if he felt it, he moved.”

Anton’s hand slides down my spine once, then stops at my waist. “Yes.”

I study his face. Hair wrecked. Mouth still red from kissing me. Shirt open. One of my bite marks just visible above the collar. He looks like an expensive problem and a bad habit, and I’m apparently in love with him now, which feels both inevitable and deeply annoying.

He sees the way I’m looking and his mouth shifts. “Keep that up and we lose another hour.”

“I’m trying to be serious.”

“No, you’re trying to undress me again.”

I push his shoulder. “You are impossible.”

“And you love me.”

That makes me laugh in spite of myself. “You got very arrogant very fast.”

“I was already arrogant. You just made it official.”

I curse inwardly and move and my legs protest when I stand, and the look he gives me is filthy enough that I stop halfway through pulling the throw around myself. “Don’t,” I say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was appreciating the aftermath.”

“That isn’t better.”