Page 84 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“Yes.”
The word is absolute.
The vet nods, unsurprised. He treats the wound, administers medication, leaves supplies and instructions Dimitri absorbs with the same focus he brings to business negotiations. Money changes hands—far more than necessary, I’m certain—and then we’re alone again.
The kitten curls in Dimitri’s coat, wrapped in expensive fabric, breathing steady now. Sedated for the pain, the vet said. She’ll sleep for hours.
“We should name her,” I say. The words feel absurd. We’re discussing pet names while secret phones burn holes in closets, while strangers wait for intelligence I haven’t delivered.
“Misha.” He doesn’t hesitate. “It means bear. She fought like one.”
“She’s the size of your fist.”
“Size doesn’t determine strength.”
His eyes find mine, and the weight of last night settles between us. The things unsaid. The drawer I’d been caught opening, the explanations I’d fumbled, the way he’d chosen to believe me anyway.
Or pretended to.
“I wasn’t trying to steal from you,” I say. The lie tastes bitter.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“No.” He adjusts the coat around Misha’s sleeping form. “I want to, though.”
Honesty. Raw and cutting. I don’t know what to do with it.
We move back inside. Dimitri settles on the couch with Misha still bundled against his chest, and I watch from across the room. He’s killed men. I’ve seen him do it, watched bodies fall with precision that spoke of practice. He’s threatened me with guns and possession, caged me in marble and money.
Now he holds a broken kitten like she’s the most important thing in the world.
“You’re staring,” he observes without looking up.
“You’re confusing.”
“How so?”
I cross to sit beside him, careful not to jostle Misha. “Last night, you were ready to interrogate me for going through your desk. This morning, you’re rescuing kittens. I don’t understand which version is real.”
“Both.” His hand moves over Misha’s back, rhythmic strokes that keep her calm. “I’m capable of violence and mercy. Cruelty and kindness. You’ve always known that.”
“Knowing it and seeing it are different things.”
“Does it change anything?”
The question hangs heavy. Does it? Does watching him cradle something helpless soften the edges of what he is? Does one act of gentleness erase the cage he’s built around me?
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Misha makes a small sound in her sleep, paw twitching. Dimitri’s hand stills until she settles again.
“I meant what I said last night,” he murmurs. “About wanting to believe you.”
Guilt rises sharp and immediate. “Dimitri—”
“Let me finish.” He finally looks at me, and the exhaustion in his face is startling. “I know you’re not telling me everything. I know there’s something you’re hiding, something that made you go through my desk.”
