Page 133 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"I love you," he said.

I shut my eyes for a second.

I'd waited too long for those words. But old wounds didn't vanish because someone said love. They stayed under my skin, reminding me how he'd doubted me, humiliated me, left me.

Kiryan seemed to read the silence.

"I'm not asking you to say it back. I'm not asking you to forgive me right now." His thumb stroked the back of my hand, slow. "I just owe you the truth."

"Then say it."

He went quiet, like he was lining up every charge in a confession he couldn't afford to skip.

"I thought I loved Isabella. More accurately, I loved what she showed me. She knew I was afraid of betrayal, so she built herself into someone I wouldn't question."

I didn't interrupt.

"Before my mother died, my father's mistress forced her out. My father stood there like my mother was the one who didn't belong." His jaw tightened. "Then you showed up in my room, Isabella left again, and I shoved you into that woman's place."

His fingers tightened in my palm.

"I decided you were guilty first. Because admitting I'd been wrong about Isabella meant admitting I'd been just as stupid as my father."

"So you punished me even though I hadn't done a damn thing."

"I did."

"Even when you started to know me."

His eyes darkened.

"Especially then. The way you looked when you painted. The way you took care of Olga. The way you went out in the rain just to get your supplies back... You were nothing like what she described. The closer I got to you, the clearer it got that I was wrong—and the harder I hurt you. Because admitting I cared about you was harder than hating you."

The answer was brutal. It was also honest.

"The video was her setup. The signature on the divorce papers was forged. The medical report was real, but the baby wasn't mine." He paused. "After I confirmed it, I should have told you immediately. But I still tried to bring you back first."

The air in the room felt like it got yanked out.

"Then what do you want?"

"A chance to prove I can love you—not own you."

"And if I don't give it to you?"

His throat bobbed.

"I accept it."

The old Kiryan would've locked doors, grabbed my wrist, used husband and Pakhan like a badge that let him decide everything. Now he could barely lift his arm, and he still handed me the thing he feared losing most.

He finally carried what he'd done.

I stood and leaned over him.

Kiryan's breath caught.

"What are you doing?"