Page 24 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Lady of this house made me freeze. Since I'd come here, nobody had ever said my place out loud like it was normal.

"Are you hungry? That little bit Kiryan brought you wouldn't last long." She sat on the edge of the bed, voice gentler.

I remembered the bowl of semolina porridge—I'd eaten less than half. My stomach was basically empty.

But hearing his name kicked the dream back into my head: naked skin, fingers tangled, his mouth at my ear, all those words.

"I'm not really hungry," I said, looking away, awkward as hell.

Olga watched me, sighed once, then spoke.

"When Kiryan left, he told the kitchen to keep making food that is easy on your stomach." She paused. "The doctor said you got chilled from the rain, and you hadn't been eating. That's why you got so sick. Kiryan waited until the doctor confirmed your fever would break before he went to deal with anything."

So it hadn't been my imagination.

Kiryan hadn't just fed me and given me medicine—he'd called a doctor. My heart kicked up again. Somewhere deep inside me, a part I'd forced down for years dared to hope.

I killed it fast.

I knew the truth. Kiryan didn't like me. Maybe he just didn't want me dying in the Morozov house. I'd been delirious, and I'd turned basic obligation into something else.

"Elena?" Olga's voice pulled me back.

"What?" I answered, still foggy.

"Kiryan is cold. He talks like a brick." She handed me the warm water. "He is used to giving orders. He doesn't know how to make people feel okay. I'm not telling you to forget what he did. I'm telling you—if he truly doesn't care, he would have left before the doctor ever arrived."

I looked down at the water trembling in the glass.

Most of the time, when Kiryan spoke to me, it sounded like an interrogation. It was hard to fit that voice next to the idea of care.

"You don't have to comfort me," I said, taking a sip to wet my raw throat.

I knew what I was in this marriage. I knew why he didn't want me.

Today's care had been duty. Anyone who got sick under the Morozov roof—he wouldn't just let them die.

"I don't say things I can't back up," Olga said, her tone firm and heavy. "I watched him grow up. He never does what he truly doesn't want to do. And he damn sure doesn't personally take care of someone he doesn't care about at all."

"He isn't going to like me," I said, pressing my tongue behind my teeth to keep my voice steady.

One breakfast and one wiped tear didn't erase what he'd said before. It sure as hell didn't change what he'd felt for Isabella.

"I think you two have a lot of misunderstandings." Olga's voice stayed calm. "Believe me, he isn't as awful as you think. And I hope you don't decide he can never change. You'll live together a long time. You're a good girl."

My mouth twisted into a bitter little smile. Nobody changed him but Isabella. I'd never been more certain of anything.

"He hates me because of Isabella. And because of this marriage." I dropped my gaze, tightening my grip on the glass.

The water was warm. It still felt cold in my hands.

"He thinks he hates you," Olga corrected. "Kiryan always treats his judgments like facts. Once he decides something, nobody pulls him back. But today, he stayed in your room a long time."

"Maybe he just thinks I am a problem."

"Then why did he feed you himself?" She held my eyes, certain. "I saw it from the doorway. He was gentle when he fed you the porridge."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.