Chapter 11 - Katya
The cold smacks me the second the freezer door shuts—a slap, sharp and mean, way worse than I thought it’d be. My heart jumps. I spin around and yank at the handle, but nope, it’s stuck.
Locked in.
Seriously? How the hell did that happen?
Must’ve been the latch, caught weird when I went for those frozen raspberries. Stupid move. Of course, my phone’s sitting out on the prep table, buzzing with orders I can’t see, while I’m trapped in here with stacks of butter and tubs of fruit puree. My fingers already sting.
“Okay, calm down,” I mutter. My breath fogs up under the sad, flickering bulb overhead. The air smells like cold metal and just a hint of berry. I slam my fist on the door, hard—three fast thuds.
Please, let Lena still be out front restocking. But the shop’s dead silent. It’s been closed for an hour. She’s probably halfway home by now.
Tatiana’s not coming in till tomorrow. And Tikhon… who knows. Off doing whatever mysterious Bratva business he’s obsessed with lately, chasing shadows like always.
The chill creeps in quick. My sweater and jeans do nothing. I hug myself and pace up and down the aisle, sneakers squeaking on the icy floor.
How long before things get serious? Five minutes? Ten? How fast does hypothermia start? My brain spirals. I see myself curled up in a corner, lips blue, some headline about the idiot baker who froze to death in her own shop.
Pathetic.
After everything—building this place from scratch, fighting my brothers for every scrap of freedom, even marrying a man just to keep it safe—this is how I go out? Alone, locked in a freezer, because I didn’t double-check the latch?
I bang again, harder, my voice cracking as I yell, “Hey! Anyone out there?” My words bounce back, muffled by thick insulation. Panic squeezes my throat. What if nobody comes? What if Tikhon’s too busy chasing ghosts to notice I never made it home? The air feels heavier and colder. My nose is numb.
Then I hear footsteps. Faint, but real. A shadow flashes across the little window. The handle rattles. Suddenly, the door swings open, a rush of warm air slapping me in the face.
There’s Tikhon, filling the doorway, scowling like a thunderstorm, eyes sweeping over me. “Katya? What the hell—”
Relief hits so hard I almost crack up. “I… locked myself in. Stupid latch.”
He doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. His jaw tightens, green eyes sparking. “Get out. Now.”
I step out, warmth stinging my skin. Before I can say a word, he scoops me up—bridal style, easy, like I weigh nothing. “Hey! Put me down, I can walk—”
“Shut up,” he snaps, carrying me to the back office. He drops me on the old couch, then grabs a bunch of kitchen towels, piling them on me like makeshift blankets. He moves fast and sharply, but his hands are shaking. I see it.
“I’m fine,” I grumble, batting a towel away. “It was ten minutes. You’re being dramatic.”
“Ten minutes?” Now he’s glaring. “You could’ve been in there all night. What if I didn’t show up? What if you passed out? This is careless, Katya. Reckless. You know better—especially now.”
I bristle, heat rising in my cheeks even as the towels warm me up.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot—some of us aren’t perfect Bratva robots who never mess up. And ‘especially now’? What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m some fragile princess who needs babysitting?”
He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the cramped room. “Yeah, actually. With everything going on—Fadir still out there, watching—you can’t afford this. Locking yourself in a freezer? Leaving your phone outside? What if someone was waiting?”
We go back and forth, voices getting louder by the second. He says I’m careless, and I call him paranoid. The office feels smaller with every word.
But underneath all the shouting, I see it—the worry etched into the lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders hunch like he’s holding up the sky. It’s not just anger. He’s scared. Frustrated, too, tired in a way that sinks beneath his stubble and into his bones.
He finally stops, leaning against the desk, arms crossed. His chest heaves. I can’t help but notice how his shirt strains across his chest and the tension in his forearms. The air between us sizzles. The fight is still there, yeah, but something else is alive now—thicker, hotter.
My skin tingles, not from the cold anymore, but from the way he’s looking at me. Like he can’t decide whether to yell or kiss me. Maybe both.
I try to focus on anything but the ache deep in my belly, so I watch him instead. The shadows under his eyes are worse today—bruised purple, like he hasn’t slept in days. My voice comes out softer, all the anger gone. “Tikhon, what’s going on? You look wrecked.”
He glances away, jaw tense. The silence stretches. All I hear is the fridge buzzing in the next room. He finally sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “It’s Fadir. The hunt never ends. I set traps, he slips through. I can’t let him get near you.”
I pull the towel tighter, rough cotton scratching my skin. “Tell me about him. Really. Tatiana says he’s obsessed with me, but why? What’s he actually done?”
Tikhon looks at me, something dark flickering in his eyes.
He pushes off the desk and sits next to me, close enough that our legs touch.
His warmth chases away whatever chill’s left.
“Fadir Klem isn’t like us. Not even like Viktor.
Viktor was brutal, sure—he ruled by fear, left bodies when he had to.
But Fadir? He enjoys it. Hurting people.
Back when Viktor was in charge, Fadir handled the ‘interrogations.’ There was this one time—a low-level dealer skimmed off a shipment.
Nothing big, but Viktor wanted to make an example. ”
He stops, jaw clenched. I reach out and touch his arm.
His skin is hot under my fingers. He puts his hand over mine, holding it tight.
“Fadir didn’t just rough the guy up. He dragged him to an old warehouse and tied him up.
Broke his fingers, one by one, made him beg.
Then he started carving—symbols, names of people the guy cared about.
Said it would remind him who he belonged to.
The guy screamed for hours. By the end, he was just…
raw. Fadir left him alive, barely. Told everyone that suffering teaches better than death. ”
The horror twists in my stomach, cold and sickening. I can almost hear the screams, smell the blood. “That’s—Jesus. That’s inhuman.”
Tikhon’s voice goes flat. “And that’s just one story.
He’s done worse to women—fixates on them like they’re prizes.
Breaks them down, slow, in every way. If he’s after you, it’s not just leverage.
He wants to own a piece of us. Hurt you to hurt me, the whole family.
That’s why you’ve got extra men watching you—it’s not about control, Katya. I have to stay ahead of him. Always.”
His words hang in the air, thick as the towels around us. He’s so close now—his breath mixes with mine, cedar and something sweet from the bakery. I reach up, trace the dark circles under his eyes, feel his stubble rough under my thumb. “You’re running yourself into the ground.”
He catches my hand and presses it to his cheek. “Doesn’t matter. You’re worth it.”
The room feels charged. His eyes drop to my lips, and I can’t pretend I don’t want this. The worry for him tangles up with something hotter, something that’s been smoldering since that kiss in his office.
I lean in, closing the gap, pressing my mouth to his—soft at first. He freezes, then lets out a low sound and kisses me back, desperate.
His hands slip under the towel, tugging me onto his lap, fingers digging into my hips.
I straddle him, the couch squeaking, my hands in his hair, pulling him closer.
The kiss turns hungry, messy, urgent. His tongue slides against mine—he tastes like coffee and longing. I move against him, feel how hard he is beneath our clothes, and a gasp escapes before I can stop it.
He works his way down my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone, hands sliding up under my sweater, skin on skin. “Katya,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve wanted this. God, I’ve wanted this.”
“Me too,” I say, barely able to catch my breath. I grind down harder, chasing that friction, the heat building low and sharp.
He kisses me again, slower now, more deliberate—like he wants to memorize me. One hand cups my breast through the bra, its thumb circling, drawing a moan from my throat. The other hand slips lower, teasing at my waistband.
We could lose ourselves right here—couch, towels, the world fading away. But he breaks the kiss, presses his forehead to mine, breathing ragged. “Not like this. Not rushed.”
I nod, heart hammering. “Home?”
He grins, a little crooked. “Home.”
He helps me up, gathers the towels, and we lock up fast. The cold outside hits hard after all that heat. In the car, his hand lands on my thigh, thumb tracing circles that keep my body humming.
At the house, we barely make it through the door before he’s kissing me again—pressed up against the wood, hands everywhere, the promise thick in the air.
We’re halfway up the stairs when his phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowning. “Viktor or one of the guys,” he mutters.
“Work?”
“Yeah.” He kisses my forehead. “But this—us—I’m not putting it off anymore.”
I pull him toward the bedroom, grinning. “Good.”
***
The room is dark except for a skinny streak of moonlight sneaking through the curtains. It cuts across the bed—a soft, silvery stripe that catches on the messy sheets and the curve of Tikhon’s bare shoulder right next to me.
My whole body feels heavy, loose, still buzzing from the way he touched me. He started slow, but then he got deep, unrelenting—like he wanted to memorize every sound I made. I’m sore in the best possible way.
My thighs still tremble a little, my skin extra sensitive where his hands and mouth lingered. I’m kind of floating.
I’m not asleep, not really awake either. Just drifting in that warm, blurry space where everything softens around the edges. My cheek’s pressed against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat—steady, slow, strong, real.
His arm’s draped over my waist, his fingers spread wide across my hip, even while he’s sleeping. I feel him breathe—his chest rising and falling, warmth pressed against me, the way his body leans closer whenever I shift.
I can’t help smiling, all lazy and secret.
My mind starts to wander.
I picture it so clearly it almost aches: a small house, nothing fancy.
Maybe white clapboard, a wide front porch, a swing that creaks when the wind’s up.
The kitchen’s bright with morning sun, big enough that the two of us don’t bump into each other.
Herbs in pots on the windowsill—basil, thyme, lavender.
Out back, a garden where tomatoes and roses tangle together, growing wild. Maybe a dog—something big and dopey, snoring on the rug while I bake.
And Tikhon.
He’d come home at the end of the day—no suit, no tension in his shoulders, just himself. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair all mussed from the wind. He’d walk into the kitchen, catch me elbow-deep in dough or stirring something on the stove, and smile.
Not a polite smile, the real one—the one that starts in his eyes and crinkles the corners. He’d come up behind me, arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder, kiss my neck, and whisper something low and teasing about how good everything smells, about how good I smell.
We’d eat at a little table—nothing fancy.
Just pasta, soup, whatever I felt like making.
And we’d talk. Really talk. About recipes, about dreams, about everything that matters and nothing that does.
No bodyguards at the door. No phones buzzing with threats.
No shadows waiting to take something away.
Later, we’d sit on that porch swing—my head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around me.
Stars above us, crickets somewhere in the grass.
His fingers tracing lazy shapes on my arm.
And when the night cooled, he’d pull me inside, upstairs, and undress me slowly, as if we had all the time in the world.
No rush. No fear. Just us—skin to skin.
Mouths and hands and I love yous whispered against damp skin and shaking legs.
Maybe kids, someday. Little ones with his green eyes and my stubborn streak, running through the kitchen, trailing flour, begging to help with cookies.
Tikhon would lift them onto the counter, show them how to crack eggs without a mess—they’d mess it up anyway, and he’d laugh, deep and unguarded.
I’d pretend to scold, but really I’d just want to steal another kiss.
A real life.
Not just names, not just a truce, not just getting by.
Love. Family. Home.
I smile again, sleepy and full. My fingers curl against his chest. I feel his heartbeat skip once, then settle. He’s still out cold, but his arm tugs me closer, protective even in his dreams.
I nuzzle in, even closer.
Maybe this isn’t impossible.
Maybe—just maybe—we could have that. Or something like it.
I press a soft kiss to his collarbone.
“I love you,” I whisper. It’s barely a sound.
He doesn’t answer. But his hand slides up my back, slow and sure, holding me tight like he heard every word.
I let my eyes close.
The dream lingers—porch swing, sunlight, laughter, him.
For once, I let myself believe it could be real.