Page 37 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

I stare down at the plate in front of me, only then realizing I have no idea how I’m supposed to eat any of it. The eggs and vegetables aren’t a problem, but he cooked steak too, slicing it into thick strips that would require both hands to cut. Instinctively, I reach for the knife with my injured arm before a sharp stab of pain shoots from my shoulder all the way to my fingertips.

A hiss escapes me.

Before I can even think of trying again, Igor reaches across the island and gently takes the knife from my hand. “Don’t.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” His voice is calm, almost annoyingly so. “But you don’t have to.”

Without another word, he begins cutting the steak into smaller pieces. I watch him in silence, unable to tear my eyes away. It shouldn’t affect me this much. It’s such a small gesture, something any decent husband would do for his injured wife. I know because I grew up watching my dad do the same for my mother.

Except Igor Nazarov isn’t just any husband.

He’s the man who put a bullet between two men’s eyes less than twenty-four hours ago without so much as blinking.

The man whose name makes grown men tremble with fear.

But the same hands capable of snapping someone’s neck without hesitation now handle my breakfast with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.

When he’s done, he slides the plate back to me.

“There.”

I swallow around the strange lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

He simply nods before returning to his own food as if he’s done nothing worth thanking him for.

The breakfast passes more quietly than I expected. We exchange the occasional sarcastic remark, but most of the conversation is replaced by comfortable silence, something I never imagined could exist between us. Every now and then, I catch him glancing at me. Not in the possessive way he looked at me before the attack, but with concern. Genuine concern. Each time our eyes meet, he quickly looks away, pretending to be more interested in his coffee than in checking whether I’m still in pain.

It’s...sweet.

God, am I really describing Igor Nazarov as sweet?

I must be losing my goddamn mind.

After breakfast, he insists I take my pain medication. I grumble the entire time just to annoy him, but he waits patiently until I’ve swallowed every pill before taking my empty glass from my hand.

“You know,” I mutter as he rinses it in the sink, “you’re becoming very bossy.”

He snorts. “Becoming?”

I roll my eyes. “Fair point.”

By the time I make it upstairs, exhaustion is already creeping back into my bones. I step into the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess from yesterday, dried blood still clinging to a few strands near my temple despite the medic’s best efforts to clean me up. The thought of trying to shower with one functioning arm is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed.

I spend several minutes trying to figure out how I could possibly wash my hair without soaking my bandages before the bathroom door opens behind me.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.”

I glance at Igor through the mirror. “I’m trying to work out how to shower without looking like a drowned rat.”

His eyes move from my face to the bandages. “I’ll help.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” I shake my head. “That’s exactly why I’m laughing.”