Page 44 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

This wasn't my room.

Last night slammed back into me all at once. The studio. Kiryan's naked body. And those eyes on the sketch paper—like they'd been staring straight at me. I remembered leaning on his shoulder, talking, my lids getting heavier and heavier. After that—nothing. Blank.

Lately that sudden, crushing sleepiness had been hitting more and more.

A strong arm hooked around my waist and yanked me back into the warm blankets. His chest pressed to my back. Even through thin fabric, I felt the hard line of his muscles and the steady, brutal thud of his heart.

"Kiryan." I fought him. "Let go of me."

"Answer me first." He leaned in by my ear, his just-woke-up voice rougher than usual. "You are my wife. Why are you running from your husband's bed?"

Wife. Husband.

The words landed, and my face went up in flames. I didn't remember leaving the studio. I didn't remember how I ended up in this bed. Not a single second.

"I'm not running." I braced a hand against his forearm. "I just want to go back to my own room."

"This is your room."

"You didn't say that before."

I hadn't forgotten how he'd dumped me in the farthest room from his and ordered me to stay out of his sight unless it was necessary. Even after his apology last night, it still felt fake. Like a trick I hadn't figured out yet.

He went quiet for a beat, then loosened his hold. The second I tried to move, he planted an arm and caged me between him and the mattress.

Morning light cut across his jaw, caught the faint scar there, and lit the soft lines at the corners of his eyes. His mussed brown-black hair took the edge off his usual ice-cold severity—didn't do a damn thing to soften the pressure of him.

What rattled me more was the way he looked at me.

Too tender. Too damn gentle.

"So I am changing it," he said. "You fell asleep last night. I carried you in here. And you slept wrapped around me all night. Now you want to run? Kinda late for that."

My heartbeat skipped.

His fingers slid along my wrist to my ring finger. That was when I saw it—Isabella's custom diamond was gone, leaving a pale red groove behind.

"Where is my ring?"

"I took it off." His thumb brushed the mark. "It didn't fit you."

"So you stole it while I was asleep?"

My finger felt bare. So did my chest. The ring hadn't been meant for me, but it still had been proof—something that said this marriage was real.

"It was cutting you." His tone left zero room for debate. "I had someone make you a new one. One that actually fits."

He dipped his head and pressed his lips to my ring finger, soft as a promise.

Heat shot straight up my spine.

"Do you measure every woman like that when they need a new ring?"

"I only have one wife." He held my gaze. "You."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

"What I told you last night, I meant it." His fingers stayed wrapped around my ring finger. "I am done with the asshole shit. I am going to learn how to be a husband you can live with."