Page 16 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

The second it left my mouth, I regretted it. But I couldn't make myself trash the one thing I loved.

"Remember who you are," Kiryan said, his eyes turning darker.

"I am just telling you it isn't what you said. It is my job. It is my career."

"Career?" He said the word like it was a joke. "You lock yourself in a room wearing a rag, covered in paint. That is your career?"

"I always wear it when I paint. The stains don't come out, but the shirt is clean." I kept my chin up and held his stare.

That paint-smeared shirt felt like my pathetic little battle flag—like wearing it gave me a sliver of spine.

"You've barely walked in here, and you've already made yourself look poor on purpose." He closed in until one of his legs slid between mine, crowding me back. "You want the staff to think I wouldn't even buy you decent clothes? Or you want everyone to pity you for marrying a man who treats his wife like shit?"

My body tipped back until my spine hit the wardrobe.

"I don't want that."

"Then why did you hide it the second you saw me?" He grabbed for the brush and yanked.

Instinct made my fingers clamp down. Our hands crushed together on the narrow handle. His palm scraped my knuckles—rough calluses dragging slowly over skin—then he ripped the brush away like it was nothing.

The bristles were old, the paint on them dried stiff. He pinched it between his fingers, but the heat of his hand lingered on the back of mine.

"Because my father didn't allow me to paint," I said, forcing the words out. "If he found out, I had to hide everything immediately. It was just... a habit."

Kiryan didn't soften. He clearly took my explanation as another performance.

"You always find a way to play the victim. Make yourself look pitiful."

"I'm not playing anything." The unfairness I'd swallowed for too long tore up my throat, and my voice rose. "You are the one who decides everything I do has an ulterior motive. No matter what I say, you never believe me."

"At least Isabella knew how to keep herself presentable." His tone stayed sharp. "She wouldn't wear that, wouldn't turn the room into a dump, and she sure as hell wouldn't just hunch her shoulders and act innocent when someone questioned her."

Every word landed dead center on my wounds. Every breath I drew hurt.

I knew I didn't measure up to Isabella. I'd known from the start. My father said it. The servants said it. Now Kiryan said it too. Like as long as Isabella existed, everything I did would always be wrong.

"I never said I could replace her." My throat tightened. "You were the ones who shoved me into her spot."

Kiryan's face went hard.

"Save it. I don't want to hear that shit again."

He turned his head and barked toward the hall.

"Come in."

A maid who'd been waiting outside pushed the door open and stepped in. She'd obviously heard the argument—anxiety flickered across her face, badly hidden.

"Take all of it out. Throw it away," Kiryan said. He handed her the brush, then pointed at the easel and the paints scattered nearby.

My mind went blank. He was going to trash my supplies? My paintings? Because they weren't "classy" enough?

"No." I moved fast, planting myself in front of the easel, clutching the palette and paint to my chest.

Kiryan's gaze snapped back to my face.

"This is my house. You don't get to refuse my orders." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that crushed air out of the room.