Page 38 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

I walked up and caught the hand she tried to hide. A small, fresh red mark burned on her index finger.

"You burned yourself."

"I barely touched the edge of a pan." She tried to pull away. I didn't let her.

"If you couldn't do it, you shouldn't have pushed it."

That stubborn streak of hers drove me insane sometimes.

"I already put ointment on it." She tried to change the subject, looking a little awkward. "Feodor told me you'd be back. I figured you hadn't eaten much today, so I made this. But it might not be your kind of food."

"Whether it is my kind of food is for the person eating it to decide." I let go and pulled out a chair.

She blinked, then sat across from me.

I took a bite of the braised beef. It wasn't perfect. The meat ran a little tough. By my usual standards, it didn't come close.

And I still wanted a second bite.

"Well?" she asked.

Those hazel eyes watched me like she was braced for a verdict.

"It's edible."

Her lips pressed together. "That's probably the highest praise you're capable of."

I lifted my wineglass, hiding the smile that almost reached my mouth.

"Where did you learn?"

"When I was little, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen." She twirled pasta onto her fork. "I didn't need to show up for the formal dinners, so the cook would save some food for me. I watched enough. Eventually I picked up a few things."

She said it calmly, like it didn't matter.

It punched straight through my appetite.

At the Rossi family parties, Isabella always stood beside Seamus, soaking up praise like she was born for it. Elena stayed in the corners, quiet enough people forgot she was a Rossi too.

"If you want something, you tell the chef," I said. "From now on."

We ate in silence for a while. Every so often she added food to my plate. When my glass ran low, she pushed water toward me.

That kind of small care felt unfamiliar.

My father never waited for my mother to eat. He could stay gone for weeks, and when he came back, the first thing he did was tear apart anything that didn't suit him. After my mother got sick, the dining room felt like a boardroom.

I'd thought that was what a home was supposed to be.

Quiet. Cold. Controlled.

But right then, steam still lifted off a pot of stew that wasn't perfect. Elena sat across from me, and for the first time in years, the house I'd lived in felt like it had a pulse.

Isabella was in some far-off bar, looking like she'd already thrown the past away.

Elena stayed here.

She'd been forced to marry me. I'd misunderstood her and humiliated her again and again. And she still left a light on, still cooked something warm for me.