Page 62 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

I hesitate for a fraction of a second at the threshold.

Then I follow him in anyway.

He moves straight into the bathroom without speaking.

I trail behind him, suddenly aware of how private this feels in a way I don’t know how to name. The bathroom is just as minimal as the rest of the room, all marble and glass and sharp edges. He opens a cabinet, takes out the first aid kit, and sets it down on the floor without ceremony.

Then he sits on the closed toilet seat like this is routine.

Like I’m not standing here.

Like this isn’t strange at all.

I swallow, crouching in front of him before I can think myself out of it.

“Give me your hand,” I say quietly.

He does.

I take it carefully, turning his palm upward. The damage is worse up close—split skin across his knuckles, dried blood at the edges, fresh cuts underneath that look like they came from force rather than accident.

I focus. On the task. On the movement. On anything except the fact that I am in his space, in his room, with him sitting still and letting me do this.

I clean the wound first.

The silence between us stretches, but it isn’t empty. It feels charged in a way I don’t understand. Like something is happening underneath it that neither of us is acknowledging.

I keep my eyes on his hand as I work. I can feel his eyes on me. Guarded and assessing. Like he’s observing patterns. Not just what I’m doing, but how I do it. The way I hold his hand steady. The way I hesitate before pressing the antiseptic too hard. The way I try not to look up at him.

It’s worse than being ignored.

It feels like being studied.

I wrap the bandage tighter than necessary just to give my hands something to do.

Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t look away either.

When I finish, I tie off the bandage and finally let his hand go.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

The bathroom feels smaller now, like the air has condensed around whatever just happened between us.

I stand slowly, suddenly unsure of what I’m supposed to do with myself.

He flexes his hand once, testing the bandage. Then his gaze lifts to mine again. Still unreadable. But different somehow.

And I don’t know why that makes my heartbeat shift the way it does.

I clear my throat. “Can I ask you something?”

His brows lift slightly, but he gives a single nod. Permission granted. Simple. Controlled. Like everything else with him.

I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to stay steady. “I need my things,” I say. “From my old apartment.”

His gaze doesn’t shift. He just watches me, waiting for me to continue.

I swallow, then add, quieter, “Especially my books.”