Page 80 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Three days later, I sat in Yegor's courtyard and painted.

The place wasn't much smaller than Morozov manor. Walls, checkpoints, patrol routes—plenty. The difference was the air. People didn't move like they were afraid to make noise. The gardener even shouted across the lawn asking if I wanted him to trim branches blocking my light.

I told him no.

Tree shadows on the canvas could be part of the painting.

I painted the park bench. Not me. Not the luggage. Not the tears. Just a dark coat left over the backrest, and morning light slicing through leaves.

"It is too cold out here." Yegor's voice came from behind me.

He carried a mug of hot water and stopped outside the pale rug I'd spread without meaning to. That was my line. He'd understood it. After that, every time he came out, he stopped there.

"In the painting or in the yard?" I asked.

"In the painting. The yard is cold too, but I figured telling you to go inside wouldn't do a damn thing."

"You figured right."

Yegor sat farther back, long legs stretched out. "You erased the person."

"How do you know there was someone?"

"The light on the right doesn't line up. You blocked in a shape first, then buried it under the background."

I looked at the faint underlayer. "You've studied art?"

"I've learned how to look. I never learned how to paint." A corner of his mouth shifted. "My mother collected Impressionists. When I was a kid, she made me stand in front of every painting for ten minutes. Said if I didn't understand it, I still had to learn to shut up."

I laughed. "That worked."

"At least it taught me I can't compliment a painting just because the colors are pretty." He got serious, watching me. "You are gentle. Emotional. Even when you leave, you refuse to paint it cruel."

My fingers tightened.

Kiryan had watched me paint too. He'd sat shirtless in front of me, that two-headed eagle tattoo spread across his chest, old scars cutting through muscle. He didn't understand art, but he watched with a focus that felt like theft—until the hand holding my brush went hot.

Back then, he'd said my eyes looked like they were lit from the inside.

I'd thought he finally saw me.

Turns out being seen and being chosen were two different things.

"Maybe I just don't want to paint people." I set my cup down.

Yegor didn't call me on the lie.

"The doctor came this morning," he said. "She said you are anemic. You aren't sleeping either."

"She also said it isn't serious."

"You remember the part you want."

The words sounded too much like Kiryan. My spine snapped tight.

"Sorry," Yegor said it immediately. "I wasn't ordering you around."

Kiryan wouldn't have apologized that fast. He'd been older than me, and he'd held too many lives in his hands. He'd wrapped concern in commands. He'd take my brush, scoop me up, carry me inside, then glare like I'd forced him to do it—and tell me I didn't have a choice.