Page 34 of Forced By the Bratva

I followed the sound and found her at the counter, kitten in her lap, feeding him scraps of chicken while one of the younger guards leaned against the counter across from her, grinning like an idiot.

He said something I didn’t catch, and she laughed again, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. The idea that another man was the reason for her happiness darkened my expression.

Something twisted sharply in my chest, immediate, irrational, before I could stop it.

My fists clenched at my sides as I walked inside, fury flickering in my gaze.

The guard noticed me first. His posture straightened instantly, his grin gone. He immediately put some distance between himself and the counter, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Iris looked up next, that smile still retained. “Oh, hey, you’re back,” she said. “Anatoli was just telling me about…”

“Out,” I said to the guard.

He left fast, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him.

Her brows drew together, deepening the frown on her face. “What the hell was that?” She rose to her feet. “You didn’t have to be so mean to him.”

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. “He overstepped his boundaries.”

“He was just talking to me. He didn’t do anything wrong.” Her scowl deepened.

I didn’t respond to that. Instead, I poured myself a glass of water I didn’t need, just to give my hands something to do other than clench into fists. The jealousy sat there beneath my calm, ugly and unfamiliar, and I hated how unsettled it made me feel. Years of controlling every reaction I had, and one guard making her laugh had nearly undone all of it in under a minute.

“What’s the matter with you anyway?” she asked, her voice softer, like she’d realized there was more to my behavior. “Did someone piss you off?”

I finished the water in the glass before setting it down on the counter. “Something like that.”

“Well, it’s not an excuse to be a jerk,” she said, her lips pursed, as if to suppress a smile.

A brief pause settled between us, and I let my eyes linger on her before I could stop myself.

Her chestnut hair was loose tonight, falling past her shoulders instead of tied back the way she usually wore it. She had on one of the oversized sweaters she favored, sleeves pushed up past her wrists, soft against her skin.

Her frown eased slightly, replaced by something else when her gaze dropped to my hand.

“That needs to be bandaged.”

I glanced down at my knuckles. The cuts had already scabbed over, dark and raw against my skin. “It’s just a flesh wound. No need for bandages.”

“Let me take a look.” She closed the distance between us before I could argue further.

Iris reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers wrapped around mine, gentle, careful, her thumb brushing slowly across the broken skin.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice soft and comforting.

I hesitated, keeping my eyes on her. “Our convoy was hit the other night.”

She lifted her head and met my gaze, her eyes searching mine as if she were seeking answers to questions she hadn’t asked yet.

Iris didn’t pull away; she didn’t tear her gaze off me either. She just kept her thumb moving over the wound, her touch soft and soothing, in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

Something in my chest went quiet beneath it, the tension I’d carried all day loosening without my permission.

In the silence that followed, I stood there, letting her hold my hand as if it belonged to her more than to me.

One question lingered in my mind.

How would she react to the idea of being my wife as a way to escape Bratva execution?