Page 85 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
My pulse hammers. “Then why—”
“I’d rather have you lying than gone.” The admission comes quiet, defeated. “I’d rather believe your weak excuses and pretend ignorance than confront whatever truth would force me to choose between you and everything else.”
The words land like blows. He knows. He’s known, maybe since the moment he found me in his study, maybe longer. He’s choosing willful blindness because the alternative is unbearable.
I’m unbearable to lose.
“I’m not worth that,” I whisper.
“That’s not your decision to make.”
Misha shifts in his arms, and he adjusts his hold automatically. The gesture is so natural it steals my breath—this dangerous man, this killer, this monster who’s somehow become mine.
I reach for him without thinking. My hand covers his where it rests on Misha’s back, fingers threading through his. He goes very still.
“I’m trying,” I say. The words feel inadequate. “To be what you need. To understand this world. To not hate you for putting me in it.”
“Are you succeeding?”
“Sometimes.” I squeeze his hand. “This morning. When you’re holding a kitten like she’s made of light.”
His mouth curves slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. “You’re easy to please.”
“You’re easy to want.” The admission escapes before I can stop it. “That’s the problem.”
“Why is it a problem?”
Wanting him complicates everything. I can’t betray someone I’m falling for. The phone in my closet feels like a countdown to the moment I have to choose between freedom and whatever this is becoming.
“I don’t trust it,” I say instead. “This feeling. It came too fast, too forced. How do I know it’s real and not just—”
“Stockholm syndrome?” He supplies the words I can’t. “You don’t. Neither do I.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest.” Misha stirs again, and he shifts her to his other arm with practiced ease. “We have time to figure it out. Unless you’re planning to run.”
The question is casual. The weight behind it isn’t.
“I’m not running.” Truth. For now.
“Good.” He stands carefully, Misha cradled close. “I need to make some calls. Will you watch her? She shouldn’t be alone when she wakes.”
I nod, and he transfers her to my arms with the same gentleness he showed in the courtyard. She’s heavier than before, limp with medication and exhaustion. Her heartbeat flutters against my palm.
“Dimitri?”
He pauses in the doorway.
“Thank you for saving her.”
“She deserved saving.” His eyes hold mine. “So do you.”
He leaves before I can respond.
I sink into the couch with Misha warm against my chest. She sleeps on, oblivious to the complications her presence has created. The softness she’s introduced into a space built on control and violence.
My phone—the real one, not the secret one burning in the closet—buzzes. Diana.
