Chapter 5 First Kiss
ROSIE
Afew weeks go by and I try hard to settle in as a Bratva wife, but it’s hard.
I’m no longer allowed to work at the Tankard.
Once I publicly became Alexei’s wife, my job as a bartender became too exposed.
And the owner, Pete, does not want a bunch of armed men protecting one of his bartenders.
Especially since he’s keeping the deals he does with the Bratva on the down low.
If it wasn’t for Liza offering me to help with her dog rescue, I’d be bored out of my mind.
And then there’s figuring out how to live with this husband of mine.
The Bratva enforcer who I know lives a life of violence outside of the penthouse walls, but so far he’s been nothing but courteous to me. I think.
It’s hard to read him.
This evening, the apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint click of the TV remote. Alexei’s on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, the other resting on his thigh, gaze on the screen but for some reason watching with the sound off.
He’s in a dark T--shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric tight enough that I can see the muscle shift when he moves, making the gorgeous ink designs on his skin ripple.
I’m at the kitchen counter, pretending to sort through the mail.
Bills, flyers, a thin envelope with my name in blocky letters that I haven’t opened because I’m scared of what it will say about my college and loan “options.” Those are words that feel like they belong to someone else now.
If the bar isn’t safe enough, imagine a college campus.
I flip a flyer over, pretend to read it, but my eyes keep flicking toward him. He’s always so still. Like the eye of a storm. The way he sits there, quiet, covered in ink and danger, and yet somehow, I feel nothing but safe in his company.
For the first time in my life, I’ve found worry-free safety. And it’s not a place. It’s a person.
“What are you looking at?” he asks without turning.
I flinch, guilt prickling up my neck. “Nothing.”
“Liar,” he says, voice low, rough. He finally turns his head, pale eyes catching mine. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to figure out if I’m a monster.”
I drop the flyer, the paper fluttering to the countertop. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he says. “You’re trying to see if I can be trusted. Or if you should run.”
My heart stutters. “I will not run.” He’s so far from the truth, but I don’t know if I can admit that to him.
To admit that to myself. The island separates us, but I can feel the heat coming off him, the way it radiates through the air.
“I’m not thinking about running,” I say.
“I’m trying to figure you out. I want…to understand you. ”
He exhales, slow, like he’s weighing every word. “Understand me?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re not the only one who’s trying to navigate this. I live in your house, wear your ring. I want to…make this work, somehow.”
He stands, the couch cushions springing back into place. He walks around the island, boots soft on the hardwood, and stops a few feet from me. “Okay,” he says. “Ask.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” His mouth quirks, almost a smile. “I want help you figure out the answers you need.”
I clamp my fingers around the edge of the counter, the granite cool under my palms. “Why… why did you agree to this? To marrying me? You could have… not. Danyl could have found someone else. Someone who’s… not a bartender. Someone who’s not broke.”
His eyes darken. “Because you’re you,” he says. “You’re a girl who works too hard and cares too much about her father even when he doesn’t deserve it. Because you’re the kind of person who’s brave enough to stand up to two Bratva men when faced with an impossible choice.”
I stare at him, mouth dry. “You’re saying I’m… special.”
“No,” he says slowly. “I’m saying you’re the right person.
For this. For this situation.” He grabs the back of his neck.
“I’m not trying to be romantic. I’m trying to be honest. I agreed to this because I can protect you.
Because I can give you something that looks like safety, even if it’s not perfect. ”
“And what about me?” I ask, voice small. “What is my role in this? What am I supposed to do in this life?”
He’s quiet for a second. “What do you want to do, Rose?”
I don’t know. I want to be in college. I want to pay my own bills. I want to be loved for myself, not for my father’s debt. I want to be kissed without feeling like I’m being traded. I want to be touched without feeling like I’m property. But I say none of those things.
“I want to be… me,” I say finally. “I want to be free to be Rosie, not Rose--the--Bratva--wife.”
He’s silent again, then nods. “I can’t give you freedom,” he says. “Not completely. I can’t undo the contract or the marriage. But I can give you… respect. Help you create a life where you don’t feel like a pawn.”
The sincerity of his words warms by body, and I exhale, the air shaky. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He takes a step closer. Then another.
The space between us shrinks, the air thickening. He reaches out, hesitates, then brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, the touch so light it’s almost unbearable.
My heart hammers, the sound loud in my ears. “What are you—”
“Touching you,” he says, voice low, rough. “I’ve been wanting to touch you since I first saw you at that bar and wondered if your skin would feel as soft as it looked. Let me touch you.”
I’m trembling. “Okay,” I say, the word barely audible. “Touch me.”
He slides his hand from my cheek to my neck, and as his thumb brushes my jaw, the roughness of his skin sending shivers down my spine. I tilt my head, the movement involuntary, the way my body leans toward him, the way my chest rises, the way my breath hitches.
“Roza,” he murmurs, the word a low growl, the way he says it, like it’s a prayer, like it’s a threat. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m a little overwhelmed,” I admit, my voice small, shaky. “What does roza mean?”
“It’s Russian for rose.” His hand slides down my back, and then under the edge of my tank top, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric. His fingers skim the curve of my spine, and I arch into him, gasping.
For a second, the world narrows to that one point of contact, the way my skin tingles, the way my breath hitches, the way my body says yes before my head has time to catch up.
His hand slides further up my back, pulling me closer. "Roza." My name on his lips sounds like both a warning and a prayer.
I answer by pressing my body closer to his.
He makes a low sound against my throat, half groan, half growl, and his mouth drags down the curve of my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point.
My head tips back and I stop caring about the hard edge of the counter digging into my hip, stop caring about anything except the heat of his body pressed flush against mine and the way his hands are moving, slow and deliberate.
His lips find my collarbone.
My fingers curl into his hair. "Alexei," I breathe.
"I know," he murmurs against my skin. "I know."
He doesn't know. But I let him keep going for another few seconds, because my body is a traitor and every nerve ending I own is lit up and screaming yes.
Then he shifts, his hand sliding into my pants and toward my front, the obvious intention of where this is heading suddenly very real.
“Wait." I grab his wrist. “I have to tell you something.”
He stops, and his forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath ragged, his whole body taut with the effort of stillness. “Tell me,” he growls.
I press my palm to his chest. His heartbeat is fast and hard under my hand, and something about knowing that, knowing I did that to him, makes me feel powerful.
But it doesn’t last long because I’m very inexperienced in this area. "I've never… I haven't done this. Any of it."
A long silence.
He lifts his head and looks at me. His eyes are so dark right now, the gray iris almost swallowed whole.
"How is that possible?" he asks, and his voice is rough, raw.
I almost laugh. "I was busy working to pay the bills."
Something sharp flashes in his eyes, but when he brings his hand up to my face, thumb tracing my bottom lip, and the touch is so deliberate and soft that my breath stutters.
"I could have hurt you," he says quietly.
"You didn't."
"I could have."
"Alexei." I wrap my fingers around his wrist, holding his hand against my cheek. "You didn't. And I'm not asking you to stop. I just needed you to know."
His eyes drop to my mouth. A muscle in his jaw ticks.
"You have no idea," he says very quietly, "what being your first means to me." He exhales, sharp, like I've knocked the air out of him. Then he kisses me deeply. His tongue exploring every corner of my mouth, claiming me.
His hands move to my hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone there, holding me in place while goes on until my knees are genuinely unreliable. I moan into the kiss, an animalistic sound I’ve never before uttered.
He answers by lifting me onto the counter and stepping between my legs. Pressing his hard cock into my core.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing like we've been running.
"When you're ready," he says, voice low and serious. "Not because of the contract. Not because of your father's debt. Because you want me. You say the word and we begin."
I stare at him, lips swollen, heart hammering. "And until then?"
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. "Until then," he says, "I'll make sure you have absolutely no doubts about what you want."
He presses one last kiss to the corner of my mouth, barely a brush, and steps back. Without looking back, he walks down the hallway to the guest bedroom.
The absence of him feels like cold water.
I grip the edge of the counter and try to remember how breathing works.
I wasn’t afraid of Alexei Kedrov before, but now I’m genuinely fearful.
I'm afraid of how much I want him.