37. Sophie
37
SOPHIE
I climb out of bed, glancing at the clock. Two in the morning. I can’t sleep. I pull on a hoodie and head for the kitchen.
If nothing else, I can make coffee and pretend to be the kind of person who doesn’t exist in a Bratva boss’s mansion.
The kitchen is massive, gleaming steel and marble, but it feels strangely empty, like I’m at the Overlook the day after it shut for the winter.
“Looking for more peanut butter?” Maxim’s voice comes from the doorway, startling me so badly I nearly knock the coffee pot over.
“Jesus!” I snap, spinning around. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Do you have some kind of radar that activates whenever I try to have a moment alone?”
“Maybe,” he says, stepping into the room. “Or maybe you’re just predictable.”
I roll my eyes, turning back to the stove. “Predictable? Says the man who probably hasn’t changed his routine in ten years.”
He chuckles, low and quiet, as he moves to the counter and leans against it. “And yet, here you are, in my kitchen, making coffee like I guessed.”
“Coffee fixes everything,” I reply, grabbing two mugs without thinking.
“Does it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as I pour it out.
“Well, maybe not everything,” I admit, setting a mug in front of him. “But it’s better than vodka at this time in the morning.”
He nods toward the stove. “You should eat something.”
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing him off.
“You skipped dinner,” he points out, his tone softer but still commanding. Before I can argue, he’s already opening the fridge, pulling out a container of leftovers. “Again.”
“I don’t need—” I start, but he cuts me off with a look.
“Sit,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.
I glare at him but sit down, crossing my arms as he heats up the food. It’s surreal watching him in the kitchen, moving with the same confidence he does in every other part of his life. But there’s something quieter about it, something domestic.
He sets the plate in front of me, the smell of roasted chicken and herbs making my stomach growl despite my protests. “There,” he says, sitting across from me. “Now you’re being a good girl.”
We eat in relative silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels like a truce—a moment where the lines between us blur just enough to make me forget how dangerous he is.
“So,” I say after a while, breaking the quiet. “Do you do this for all your prisoners, or am I special?”
He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You’re special, Sophie.”
“High praise,” I reply, though my tone is more teasing than sincere. “Careful. I might start thinking you actually like me.”
His smirk fades, and for a moment, his gaze turns serious. “I do.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected. Before I can respond, he stands, taking his empty mug with him. “Check out that cupboard to your left.”
I pull it open and look inside. A case of peanut butter with a note on top.
Stop stealing mine. Men have died for less.
I turn to thank him but he’s already gone, leaving me alone with my coffee and my thoughts.