Page 60 of The Russian's Bought Bride

Especially that last part.

Somewhere between all the lies and terrifying revelations, I still haven’t really processed the fact that my father is dead. Despite being stuck here with nothing to do, it feels like everything else is so big that there’s no room for me to sit with it properly.

Sometimes I think about him and the pain comes all at once, so violently that I question if I’ll ever be okay again. Other times, I feel strangely disconnected from it, like my brain still hasn’t caught up to reality yet. Both are terrifying, but either way, I need space to mourn him properly.

Not inside a luxury prison guarded by a man who kisses me like I’m something precious to him, only to turn around and pretend like I’m not even here.

The thought alone reignites my irritation, and I stop pacing to glance toward the front windows. I watch distant lights flickering from the city around me.

Somewhere beyond these walls, people are living normal lives. They’re going out to dinner, meeting friends, and likely complaining about traffic on the Strip. Meanwhile, I’m hiding in a Bratva house trying not to fall for the man keeping me here.

It makes me feel pathetic.

Rather than dwelling on it, I inhale slowly and straighten my shoulders. Regardless of what happens, I can’t keep avoiding it. The second he gets home, we’re having this conversation, and he’s not refusing me this time.

There will be no distractions, no flirting, and no letting him derail me with those frustratingly beautiful eyes and rough hands capable of unexpected tenderness.

This ends tonight.

Almost on cue, the front door opens, and my stomach immediately tightens.

Okay…here we go.

Heading toward the foyer before I can lose my nerve, I’m already bracing myself for the argument waiting on the other side of this conversation. For the inevitable dismissal I’m bound to receive.

But the moment I see him, every carefully prepared word dies in my throat, and I’m taking him in far too deeply before I can stop myself.

Nikolai looks exhausted.

Rather than the composed, barely-there kind of tired I’ve grown used to seeing from him, this looks all-consuming andmeaner somehow. It’s as if the weight of the entire day is dragging at his shoulders, and he’s barely standing upright. He has been gone for hours upon hours.

His black dress shirt is wrinkled and partially untucked, with the sleeves rolled roughly to his forearms. There’s dried blood across his forearms and smeared against his neck, dirt caked along his knuckles, and even from several feet away, I can see shallow cuts across his jawline that have already been cleaned but not fully hidden. He has obviously handled the worst of it already.

Nikolai notices me immediately, but his expression barely changes. “Did I wake you?”

The question catches me off guard enough that I just stare at him for a second, eventually remembering to respond. “No.”

He nods once and moves past me toward the kitchen, slow and deliberate in a way that tells me he’s running almost entirely on discipline right now. If he had the choice, I imagine he’d be face down on the couch by now.

The anger I’d been holding onto all evening falters unexpectedly, and I hate that it does.

Despite how furious I still am with him, the sight of blood on his skin, regardless of who it belongs to, sends immediate concern twisting through my chest.

For all my resentment, I’m not heartless, and something about him tonight doesn’t feel right. Even more so than usual. He’s obviously still standing and functioning, but there’s more simmering beneath the surface. It looks a lot like frustration and guilt.

I follow him quietly into the kitchen and watch as he braces both hands against the marble counter for a briefmoment, head lowered while he barely keeps himself together. That alone unsettles me.

Nikolai never looks worn down like this.

“What happened?” I ask carefully.

His shoulders tense slightly, but he takes a slow breath. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

The immediate dismissal irritates me all over again, but this time, I don’t let him get away with it. “Nikolai.”

He glances at me briefly before turning toward the sink to wash blood from his hands, features tight. “It’s handled.”

Normally, I would’ve backed off. Two weeks ago, I definitely would have.