Chapter 29
When I woke up, the bed was empty. For one second, everything in me went cold. Then, I heard music. It was low, soft, and coming from somewhere downstairs. I sat up, listening. But there was just music.
I rubbed a hand over my face, then looked toward the bathroom. The cream was still on the counter. Her towel was folded over the bench. My shirt was gone, which meant she was still in it or had stolen it, no doubt with plans to deny it later. Either way, she was in this house.
I pulled on a plain black T-shirt, slipped into my slides, and made my way downstairs. The closer I got to the kitchen, the more I smelled. Coffee, something sweet, and bacon… real bacon, not that turkey shit Sergei ordered when he pretended he cared about my cholesterol.
Theory stood at the stove wearing my shirt. My wife’s hair was piled on top of her head, and her feet were stuffed into some furry slippers. She had one hip leaned against the counter and a spatula in her hand like she knew what she was doing.
For a moment, I didn’t move. She must have felt me, though, because she glanced over her shoulder.
“Good morning,” she said.
Her voice sounded sweet, kinda happy. There was no attitude or looking away, just “Good morning.” I smirked, now thoroughly convinced of the power of my dick.
I leaned against the doorway. “Morning.”
Her eyes moved over me in a way that was not shy at all. I returned the favor, biting my lower lip as I thought about getting her thick ass back in bed and folding her up.
“You slept?”
“A little.”
She scoffed. “That means no.”
“Nah. It really means a little.”
She cut her eyes at me. “I don’t know why I asked a Russian gangster a simple question and expected a simple answer.”
“I’m an American gangster, too,” I reminded her.
“Unfortunately for both countries.”
I smiled and changed the subject. “You cooking for me?”
Her shoulders lifted in a little nonchalant shrug. “I’m cooking breakfast. You happen to live here, so you can eat.”
“Oh, I just happen to live here?”
She pointed the spatula at me. “Don’t push it. Mr. Sidorov.”
“I wouldn’t dare, Mrs. Sidorov.”
I waited for the smart comeback, the denial.
But she just peeked in the oven, letting the smell of the bacon waft more loudly.
I pushed away from the doorway and walked toward her.
She watched me come, and this time, she didn’t pretend she was annoyed by my closeness.
She turned into me when I reached her, letting me put my hands on her waist.
I kissed the side of her neck. “How you feel?”
Her body softened against mine. “Good.”
“You sore?”
“A little.”
My hands tightened on her waist, turning her so I could search her eyes. She touched my chest, gave it a reassuring little stroke.
“Not in a bad way, Targen.”
“You would tell me?”
“Yes.”
I looked at her until she sighed.
“I would tell you, Targen. I would complain all day. I would yell it from the rafters. I would—”
I held up a hand and smiled. “Okay, okay.”
She searched my face for a moment, then rose on her toes, pulled me down, and kissed me.
It wasn’t a quick little peck, either. Nah, my shorty kissed me in the middle of the kitchen with bacon popping in the oven and eggs waiting in a bowl, like she didn’t give a damn about that food.
My hands slid around her back. She pulled back, but she stayed close.
“I woke up hungry,” she said.
“For food?”
She smiled, a slow, naughty curve of her lips. “Currently.”
“Currently?” I repeated.
“Don’t get excited. I’m still recovering from your lil attitude.”
“My lil attitude had you screaming my name.”
“And now it has you about to burn my bacon,” she popped.
I reached around her and pushed buttons until the oven went off. She laughed, then nudged me away with her hip. “Targen! Stop! Sit yo’ ass down. You gon’ make me mess up my pancakes.”
“Shorty,” I said, before kissing her like I would never get another one, “I’m tryna butter your pancakes.”
She side-eyed me. “Does it hurt? Being that corny.”
I shrugged. “Only a little. But, ay, I can help you.”
“You can sit down.”
“You bossy this morning.”
“I’m a Bratva bride now. I gotta be.”
I went still. She noticed immediately and tried to play it off. “Don’t overthink it. I was just joking.”
“No, you weren’t.”
She rolled her eyes. Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned against the counter. “Say it again.”
She kissed her teeth, but her cheeks warmed with a blush. “I’m not doing this with you this morning.”
“Say it again, Theory.”
She pointed the spatula at me again. “You see how controlling you are?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flew to me, surprised by the admission. I shrugged again. “I’m self-aware.”
“Nah, you shameless.”
“And you stalling.”
She turned back to the stove, but I caught the smile she tried to hide.
“I said I’m a Bratva bride now,” she repeated, flipping a pancake. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
It was too late for that. It went straight there. Then it went lower. Maybe I was shameless. But not completely, because it also went somewhere else, somewhere behind my ribs. I didn’t know if I knew what to do with that.
My wife was standing in our kitchen on a Sunday morning, cooking breakfast in my shirt, saying things like “Bratva bride” with a little smile on her face.
Yep, my shorty was getting used to us. I knew she still planned to argue with me every chance she got.
That was fine. I didn’t want a quiet woman.
I wanted Theory. I wanted my smart-mouthed, quick-witted, fine ass firecracker of a wife.
I sat down because she eyeballed me like she might throw something if I didn’t. A few minutes later, she set coffee in front of me, no sugar, a little cream. It was exactly how I drank it. I looked down at the cup, then back at her.
She shrugged. “I pay attention, too.”
“I know.”
“You still overthinking.”
I grinned. “Just thinking my wife likes me.”
She scoffed. “That’s debatable.”
“You made me coffee.”
“That's cuz I’m sweet.”
“You kissed me.”
“I probably was lightheaded.”
“You called yourself a Bratva bride.”
“Boy, I’m under a lot of stress.”
I smiled at her. “In your own kitchen?”
“This is not my kitchen.”
I glanced around. “Whose is it?”
She paused with the plate in her hand. This was it, the little moment where she could decide to back off. She could remind me that she had her own house, her own life.
I waited.
She set the plate in front of me.
“It’s our kitchen,” she said quietly.
I caught her wrist, pulled her closer, and kissed the inside of it.
“Our kitchen,” I agreed.
She gave me a little smile. Then she moved around the island and sat beside me with her own plate.
She made us pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sliced fruit.
We ate in quiet. I observed everything she did, everything that felt wifely.
Her foot brushed mine beneath the island.
She stole a piece of bacon off my plate even though she had her own.
She hummed along to the music under her breath. And then she surprised me.
When we were almost done, she looked at me and said, “Your face needs cream.”
My brow raised. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“I’m eating.”
She jumped down—my milaya was a shorty for real.
“Be done by the time I come back,” she ordered
I leaned back. “You bossing me around in our kitchen?”
She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself. “Yes.”
She went upstairs and came back with the jar before I could tell her not to—not that I would have. I finished that food like she said. She stood between my knees and opened the cream. Theory rubbed a little between her fingers the same way she had watched me do it. Then she touched my face gently.
“I won’t break,” I told her.
She gave me a serious look. “You better not. I need you too much.”
That shut me the fuck up, made me feel more of those new-to-me emotions I hadn't figured out how to feel. Her fingers moved along my cheek, slow and soft. I anchored my hands on her hips because it just felt right to hold her like that.
“You okay?” she asked.
I almost laughed. That was my line.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You sure?”
“No.”
My response was honest. Her hand paused. I looked at her. “But don’t stop.”
She kept going. I let my wife put cream on the scars I usually handled alone. I’d never let a woman who wasn’t a doctor or my mama or a little Russian grandmother touch them before her.
When she finished, she didn’t move away.
“This is too quiet. Chaos gotta be coming,” she said softly.
My mouth curved, because she wasn’t wrong. “Probably.”
She slid her arms around my neck. “But not this morning.”
I lifted her into my lap, and she came without hesitation.
Not this morning.
She was right. And since it wouldn’t be this morning, I just held her.
(Monday, June 23)
Theory and I spent Sunday in bed mostly.
By evening, my wife had tapped out, her body exhausted from the paces I’d put her through.
To be honest, the number of times I’d filled her had me on the verge of dehydration.
I spent the rest of the night cuddling her, feeding her, talking to her, watching those stupid ass short dramas with her—I ain’t gon’ lie; some of them joints were good, though.
Monday morning, she cooked for me again.
She sat in my lap and fed me bites of a fluffy omelet and sausage and strawberries while I stole kisses from lips already puffy from the way I had nibbled and sucked on them.
After that, she applied cream to my face and I applied it to her abdomen and thigh, which led us into a world of trouble.
I had to meet Maxim, so I left her in the competent hands of Andrei and Sherrell, promising her I’d be home for a late lunch.
I kept my promise, but the minute I returned, I knew something was wrong. She was in the kitchen, standing with the refrigerator door open, staring blankly at its contents. I slid up behind her, wrapped her in my arms, and kissed her neck. I frowned when she didn’t respond.
“Theory?”
“Hmm?”