Page 88 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

I remain silent. Because I want to hear what comes next.

“We were thrown into a situation neither of us chose.” He pauses. “And after that, I didn’t exactly make things easy.”

I stare at him. Waiting.

Partly because I can’t believe this conversation is happening.

Partly because I don’t want to interrupt it.

Lukyan exhales. “I should have handled some things differently.”

The words seem difficult for him. I can tell he isn’t used to saying them. An apology. Not wrapped in speeches or excuses. Simple honesty. Coming from Lukyan, it somehow carries more weight because of that.

“I can’t change how things started,” he continues. “But I’d like to stop acting like we’re strangers living in the same house.”

My throat feels unexpectedly tight. For weeks, I’ve been trying to understand this man. Trying to decide whether he hides an agenda. Trying not to notice the moments when he seems different from the person I convinced myself he was.

And now he’s standing in front of me, offering something I never expected. Effort. A genuine one. The realization leaves me momentarily speechless.

Lukyan studies my face. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him. Because his expression eases slightly. Then he holds out his hand. The gesture is so simple. So unexpectedly old-fashioned.

For a second, I simply stare at it. Then I place my hand in his. His fingers close gently around mine. He doesn’t rush me.Doesn’t pull. Just waits until I stand beside him before guiding me toward the table.

Lights glitter around us. The candles flicker softly in the evening breeze. And somehow, despite everything, my nerves return. This feels important. Because of what it means.

Lukyan pulls out my chair. I sit down, still trying to process what’s happening. Across the table, he takes the seat opposite mine.

Now, it doesn’t feel like we’re captor and captive. Or reluctant husband and wife. Just two people sitting down together. Trying to begin again.

The realization should make me uncomfortable. Instead, it makes me nervous.

The food is already waiting on the table, filling the air with warm, familiar scents. For the first few minutes, neither of us says much. We eat. We avoid looking too directly at each other.

At least I do.

Every time I glance up, I find Lukyan already watching me.

Not in the intense way he sometimes does. But very closely. As though he’s genuinely interested in whether I’m enjoying myself.

It’s strange. Stranger still is how much I enjoy it.

“So,” he says eventually, setting down his glass. “How many books do you own?”

I laugh softly. The question catches me completely off guard. “That’s your opening question?”

“It’s important. You love books.”

“I do.”

“So how many books do you own?” His eyes shine with amusement. It feels like I’m in a dream.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“Sofia…”

“I don’t.”

His eyes narrow.