Page 60 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

Instead, there’s nothing.

He doesn’t look for me. He doesn’t try to pull me into his space. He doesn’t ask questions that don’t need answering. Most days, I only see him at the dining table, and even then, it feels more like we’re two people occupying the same schedule rather than anything resembling a marriage.

I should be relieved.

And I am.

I think.

But there’s something else underneath it that I don’t have a name for.

I exhale and sit up, the sheets slipping off my legs as I swing them over the side of the bed. I tie the sash of my robe tighter around my waist and step into the hallway barefoot.

I don’t know where I’m going at first.

I just need movement.

The corridor is dimly lit, stretching farther than it should, lined with doors that all look the same in the dark. My steps are soft against the floor as I walk, fingers brushing lightly along the wall for orientation.

Eventually, I end up in the living room. The largest window looks out over the gardens.

The estate grounds stretch beyond it—carefully kept lawns fading into darker shapes of trees and hedges, broken here and there by soft garden lights. Everything is still, curated, untouched. I stop in front of the glass.

My reflection stares back faintly, layered over the garden beyond. For a moment, I just stand there, watching the quiet space outside as if it might answer something I haven’t fully formed into a question yet.

Then, almost without thinking, my mind drifts.

If he isn’t coming to me… where is he going?

The idea arrives before I can stop it. I push it away immediately. I absolutely do not care. It’s not my business. It never was.

I stay standing there longer than I mean to, staring at nothing in particular, telling myself the same thing over and over until it almost sounds convincing.

I don’t care.

I don’t care.

I really don’t care.

I mean it.

The door opens behind me.

I turn too fast.

My stomach drops instantly when I see him.

Lukyan steps into the living room. Dressed in black, as always. Expensive without trying. Controlled in a way that makes the air feel tighter just by him being in it.

He gives me a brief nod, already moving past me toward the stairs. And I almost let him. Almost. He doesn’t have to speak to me if he doesn’t want to.

Until I see his hands.

I freeze.

There’s blood on them.

Not a little. Not an accident you ignore. His knuckles are split open, skin torn, dried and fresh blood mixed across his fingers like he didn’t even think to stop whatever caused it.