Page 61 of The Russian's Bought Bride

But after all this time of weathering his defenses, from surviving all of this, or maybe from learning that Nikolai isn’t nearly as untouchable as he pretends to be, I’ve been feeling the need to push back.

For far too long, I’ve let people push me around and get what they want. I’ve let people tell me what’s wrong and what’s right, only to be left feeling misguided and walked over. But I’m sick of it…especially when it’s coming from the man who claims he wants to protect me.

So instead of retreating, I step closer.

“No,” I say firmly, refusing to even let my voice waver. “You don’t get to shut me out every time something goes wrong. That isn’t fair.”

That finally gets his full attention, and for a brief moment, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. If I’ve picked the wrong night to be brave.

Nikolai turns toward me slowly, brows drawing together like my tone genuinely caught him off guard. For an uncomfortable second, neither of us says a word. Then he exhales quietly through his nose and rubs a hand over his jaw before leaning back against the counter.

“You’re getting bolder,” he mutters, less accusatory and more tired.

“Maybe you’re just difficult.”

Something close to amusement flickers briefly across his face before fading again, and after a long pause, he finally says, “Malenkov made contact tonight.”

I blink, both surprised that he actually told me and that something else went down. “The organ traffickers?”

“Yes.”

The seriousness in his voice immediately stills whatever irritation I had left.

“What happened?” I ask, temporarily forgetting about the isolation and the rehearsed script in my head.

His gaze drifts briefly toward the darkened windows, and his jaw tightens enough to let me know it hasn’t been an easy night. “They intercepted a trade happening at one of my family’s warehouses.”

I stare at him, momentarily distracted by how casually he just admitted that. Given how I’m stuck in his place, it’s easy to forget what he’s a part of and how he isn’t just a man working to take down despicable people out of the goodness of his heart.

The Bratva, illegal dealings…normal Tuesday evening activities, apparently.

“They attacked you?” I ask slowly, allowing all of it to settle in.

“It was a warning shot more than anything else.” He murmurs, unable to fully disguise his frustration. “They hit fast, stole some inventory, and disappeared.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach as my mind wanders, picturing exactly that happening all around him.

“Because of you?”

His silence answers before he does, then the tension and guilt radiating off him suddenly make more sense.

“They know who you are now,” I realize quietly. “And your family.”

He nods

Studying him carefully, I take in the exhaustion he’s trying so hard to hide. Beneath all the sharp edges and control, he looks like a man carrying too many responsibilities at once, and one who refuses to drop them until he reaches a solution.

“I’m guessing your brother wasn’t thrilled,” I say gently.

That earns me a dry, humorless laugh, and his face doesn’t match it. “Definitely not.”

Despite myself, sympathy slips through my irritation, which is annoying in itself.

After everything, I don’t want to give him too much grace. Part of me still wants to stay angry and to keep emotional distance between us for my own sanity. I want him to feel the consequences of his choices and everything that comes with the life he lives.

But standing here now and seeing the weight of everything pressing down on him, it’s hard not to empathizea little, especially knowing this whole mess started because he tried to stop people like Malenkov from hurting others.

“What are you going to do?”