Page 16 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

The thought makes me feel sick, but it doesn’t stop the heat that’s building low in my belly. I can still feel the ghost of Roman’s fingers, the pressure and rhythm, and the way he knew exactly what I needed before I did.

Roman made me come so hard I saw stars.

I slide down in the bed until I’m lying flat. The ceiling is blank, and I stare at it while my hand drifts beneath the covers. This is wrong. This is so deeply fucked up that I should stop, but my hand keeps moving.

My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear and I’m already wet, already aching.

I close my eyes and Roman’s face appears behind my eyelids. My breath comes faster. I bite my lip to keep quiet even though I’m alone, even though no one would hear me. Old habits.

I think about his hands on my skin. I work myself with my own fingers, feeling the tension coiling as my walls clench. I can almost hear Roman’s voice saying my name.

The orgasm builds quickly. My free hand fists in the sheets and my hips lift off the mattress. When I come, I have to press my face into the pillow to muffle the sound.

After, I lie there staring at the ceiling and hating myself.

What kind of person does this? What kind of person gets off on thoughts of the man who killed her husband?

I roll onto my side and pull the covers up to my chin. The room feels colder now, and my skin is damp with sweat. I should take a shower.

A knock at the door makes me jolt upright.

“Mrs. Volkonsky?” Oksana’s voice, muffled through the wood. “I’ve brought you some dinner.”

Shit. I scramble out of bed and grab the jeans from the floor, yanking them on. My hair is a mess and my face is probably flushed, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

“Just a second,” I call out. My voice sounds rough and I clear my throat.

I smooth down my hair as best I can and open the door. Oksana stands in the hallway holding a tray laden with covered dishes. Her eyes do a quick scan of my face, and I know she’s cataloging every detail.

“I thought you might prefer to eat up here,” she says. “Rather than in the dining room with...”

With Roman.

“Thank you. That’s thoughtful.”

She carries the tray inside and sets it on the small table by the window. When she lifts the covers, steam rises from a bowl of soup and a plate of bread and cheese. The smell makes my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that was just toast.

“Eat while it’s hot,” Oksana says.

I sit at the table and pick up the spoon. The soup is some kind of chicken and vegetable. I take a bite and it’s so good I could cry.

Oksana turns to face me. Her expression is unreadable, the same mask of professional courtesy she’s worn for as long as I’ve known her.

“You should know,” she says carefully, “that I think Mr. Roman is making the right choice in observing Zabota.”

I set down my spoon. “Do you?”

“I do. You’ll be safer with him than you ever were here.”

The words hit harder than they should. Oksana has worked in this house for decades. She saw everything, knew everything. She never said a word to me about Dmitri, never offered sympathy or support.

“You never told me,” I say. My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “In three years, you never once said anything.”

“What would you have had me say?” Oksana’s hands smooth down her apron, a nervous gesture I’ve never seen from her before. “That your husband was cruel? You lived with him, Mrs. Volkonsky. You knew.”

“I did know, but it would have been nice to think someone else saw it too. That I wasn’t going crazy.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she pulls out the other chair and sits across from me, which is so unexpected that I forget to keep eating.