Page 44 of The Russian's Bought Bride

Dani is staring at me from across the kitchen island, one brow slightly raised, cookie still held between her fingers like she isn’t entirely sure what she just unleashed, or if she even recognizes the man in front of her anymore.

And Christ, she looks different tonight.

She’s obviously still grieving, and still exhausted beneath the surface, but alive in a way she hasn’t been since I dragged her out of that hospital. There’s a new kind of light in her eyes now that I never thought I’d get to see.

There’s flour dusted faintly across the sleeve of her shirt, there’s a smear near her wrist, and her hair is slightly messy from whatever she was doing before I walked in.

Even more so, she looks domestic in a soft way that I’ve never let myself have before, and the realization feels more like a punch to the chest.

“You done?” she asks dryly once my laughter finally fades, pretending to be unamused, but I catch the glimmer in her eyes anyway.

“You called me a hardened Bratva man like I’m eighty years old.”

“I didn’t say old.”

A small smile tugs at her mouth before she can stop it, and that little shift in her expression makes something in me tighten unexpectedly.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this. None of this should feel good after everything…after the lies, the fear, and the fact that she’s in this house because of me. Yet, she’s standing here in the kitchen with warm light spilling across the counters and the smell of vanilla in the air, and it feels more peaceful than anything I’ve experienced in months. Maybe even years.

My gaze drops briefly to the cookie still in her hand. “Are you going to give me that or keep waving it around like a weapon?”

“That depends,” she says lightly. “Can you be trusted with it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“At least you’re honest.”

I snort quietly and step closer, taking the cookie from her fingers before she can even think about taking it back.

Her eyes track the movement automatically, and the air shifts slightly like she’s holding her breath.

Taking a bite, mostly to give myself something else to focus on, I let the flavors register. It’s good…really good. Maybe I should’ve expected that.

“Well?” she asks after a second, clearly trying to look unaffected, but I can tell this means more to her than she wants to let on.

I chew slowly on purpose, not giving her an answer, and her eyes narrow instantly.

“You’re annoying,” she mutters.

“And you’re impatient.” I let the silence stretch another second before nodding once in approval. “It’s good.”

She exhales dramatically. “Thank God.”

Apparently, my approval means more to her than she cares to admit, and something about that warms even the deepest parts of me.

Glancing down at the counter briefly, then back at her, I notice a dusting of white on her cheek. “You missed something.”

Her brows knit together. “What?”

Without answering, I reach forward and brush my thumb lightly across her skin, barely moving along the apple of her cheek. A faint streak of flour transfers over to me.

She freezes, and so do I.

Without warning, the playful atmosphere morphs into something quieter, forcing us both to focus on the touch and how I did it without thinking.

Her breath catches softly, and I realize two things at once. One, I shouldn’t have touched her. Two, I don’t want to stop for anything.

“You had flour on your face,” I murmur in an attempt to save face, but my voice sounds rougher than it was a second ago.