Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

Peeling Daphne off me took more willpower than I expected.

My dick wants me to go a hell of a lot further than just quietly holding her as she dreams. But that’s easy enough to tame. What was much harder—surprisingly so—was how good the rest of me felt.

She just fits so perfectly. Naturally.

Like she’s where she belongs.

I swallow back whatever the hell these feelings are and focus on fixing the situation at hand. Once I’m sure she’s sound asleep, I tiptoe out of the bedroom and head for the main living room.

“What could you possibly need?” Mak yawns into his phone. “You’re not running recon, are you?”

“I’ve got a problem.” I flop down onto the suede couch with a heavy sigh.

“So take a pill. Or one of those nighttime cough syrups. I don’t care, as long as I can sleep.”

I ignore his complaining and cut to the chase. “She’s terrified of me, brat. How the hell is this supposed to work?”

Mak sighs. “Let me guess: you just barged on in without so much as a text.”

“It’s my penthouse.”

He can’t see me do it, but I’m glaring at the phone while he laughs his ass off. It’s a solid minute before he calms down enough for me to get a word in edgewise.

“Please tell me she clocked you good. I bet good money she hit you so fucking hard,” he cackles.

My shoulder still smarts where she hit it with the lamp, but I’m not about to admit anything. “You’re useless.”

“And you’re clueless.”

“Watch it.”

“No, no, you don’t get to pull the mob boss bullshit at three in the morning. Not while we’re off-duty. You called me as my brother, so you get my responses as your brother. You’re a dumbass.”

I click my tongue against my teeth. “Do I need to call Sofi instead?”

“She will murder you if you wake her up. I’m your best and only option. And I’m telling you right now, you’re asking for the moon from this woman and wondering why your spaceship keeps crashing.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

Mak sighs, groans, and sounds like he’s sitting up in his bed. “Dude, I don’t know the first thing about pregnant women. But I do watch a lot of nature shows, so, like… take what you will. Every time something knows it’s about to have babies, they start nesting, right? Making a home, getting everything set up, making a safe space.”

“Alright.”

“Right. Nice, warm, safe space for baby.” He takes a deep breath. “So what have you been doing lately, hm?”

I frown. “I gave her a safe space. Mine. It’s safe, with me, and has plenty of space.”

“Uh-huh. And how many times did you manipulate her into relocating so you could give her this little love nest of yours?”

“It’s not a love nest.”

“Does she have her own room?”

I glance at the only other bedroom door down the hall. “… No.”

“Did you turn the second bedroom into a fully furnished nursery for your baby with the hopes that she’ll see how thorough you’re being?”

“Have you been going through my accounts again?”

I can hear Mak’s smirk through the phone. “Let me guess: if she were to walk into that kitchen right now, she’d find it fully stocked with all the best prenatal foods your Google research has come up with. All organic, too.”

“It’s important to be prepared.” He’s really starting to grate on my nerves.

“You literally created a love nest. ‘Look at me, I’m the best mate, I made you a nest with food and shiny rocks!’ Penguins mate with more subtlety than you.”

“Get to the damn point, man.”

“You made your biggest, bestest love nest to show your intended mate how ideal you are on all the logical terms. But you never once considered that she’s been making her own nest, on her own terms, for the baby she’s carrying. Instead of taking sentimentality into factor, you smashed all over her nest and squawked in her face until she had no choice but to hunker down in yours. So yeah, congrats, you have her right where you want her. But you don’t have her where she wants to be.”

I despise that he might have a point.

“Fine.” I know when to accept defeat, temporary as it may be. “The hell do I do about this now, though?”

“You don’t do anything; time does. But while you wait for the clock to tick in your favor, maybe do your best to make her feel more at home? And that may mean swallowing your pride and letting her put up some of that flowery pink shit girls like. Hide your guns. Make the Bratva life feel more like normal life.”

I sit up. “Hide the guns? Are you⁠—”

“Nesting, bro. You’re nesting. Please explain to me how leaving guns out in the open makes a safe space for an infant. You want your heir toothing on a shotgun?”

Again, I’m annoyed at how right he is—and that I’ve been overlooking things that should be obvious to me. Call it nerves, call it being distracted by the siren currently asleep in my bed—whatever it is, it’s affecting me in ways I don’t like one fucking bit.

I blow out a puff of air and stare at the ceiling. “I’ll keep you posted.”

I could go back in there. Curl up beside her, hold her close. Make her feel how safe she is with me.

But Mak might be onto something. In the very least, it wouldn’t hurt to give her some space—and save me the trouble of additional bruises courtesy of weaponized decor.

So I find a few pillows, a throw blanket, stretch out on the couch, and set an alarm for the morning.

I meet Daphne in the bedroom the moment I hear her begin to stir. She might interpret it as being overbearing, but she’ll thank me once she goes out wearing something less… revealing.

Not that I mind. Especially as she stretches with a yawn and her nipples strain against the fabric of her tank top.

“Dobroye utro,” I greet her from the chair by the window.

“Shit!” Daphne yelps, then presses a hand to her eyes and rubs them. “Did you sleep there all night?”

“No.” I won’t misinterpret her question for concern. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually.”

The fact that she sounds confused about that has me worried. Is she not sleeping well? Deprivation isn’t good for her or our daughter. I tuck away those concerns for the doctor and refocus. “Hungry? I made us some breakfast.”

She squints at me, thoroughly confused. “Um, yeah. That sounds amazing.”

I chuckle. “You don’t even know what I made. Or if I’m a good cook.”

“You could hand me a pickle and peanut butter burrito and I’d smash.” Daphne kicks off the covers and rolls up onto her feet. “Stupid pregnancy hormones.”

The way she shuffles around the bed half-awake does things to my chest. And then I start wondering what she’ll look like waddling around with a sizeable baby belly—the one I gave her—and I have to change subjects before I lose myself in a fantasy. “I got you something, too. Something to wear.”

Daphne rolls her eyes at me. “Is it a teddy with a thong? A straitjacket? A French maid costume?”

Not yet, but there’s an idea. “None of the above. Just something comfortable for around the house.”

I walk over to the overstuffed chair and rummage through the pile of new clothes before I find what I’m looking for: a silky-soft lounge set, complete with drawstring sweatpants, a tank top, and a buttonless open robe. I hold it out to her on the hanger. “It’s maternity, so you can adjust it as you grow.”

“Oh. I, uh… thank you,” she mutters shyly. She takes the hanger from my hand and ducks into the bathroom.

When she re-emerges, I stiffen at the sight. Daphne is wearing clothes I chose for her, draped in fabrics I imagined her in, her swollen stomach the constant reminder of how thoroughly I claimed her body just a few short months ago.

Months that felt like eons when I didn’t think I’d see her again.

Months that now feel like mere blips, now that she’s here.

In my home.

Wrapped up in me.

Inside and out.

“Off we go.” I nudge the door open and beckon her through.

Daphne begins to say something about how delicious the kitchen smells when she stops in her tracks.

“I wanted to introduce you to my team,” I explain. “Well, your team. Mostly.”

“‘My team’?” Daphne croaks as she looks in complete confusion at the four men making themselves at home in the dining area.

“Security. Bratva specifically, just so you know.” I ease her to a seat at the kitchen island. “Figured it would be better to make introductions so you know who they are instead of wondering who’s following you around.”

Daphne spins around on the stool to fix me with a hard, bewildered stare. “You’re having me followed?”

I focus on serving up a plate of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and fresh strawberries which I set down in front of her at the island. She still tries to demand answers from me, but the smoothie I procure from the fridge shuts her up before she can launch into a full-blown inquisition.

I make my own plate and sidle into the seat next to her.

Daphne seems to relax the moment I sit down next to her. I don’t know if it has more to do with close proximity to me, or the mere fact that I’m obscuring her view of the guards and the guns strapped to their sides.

“I’m so sorry,” she suddenly says. I’m ready to ask her what for, what can I fix, when she leans around me and smiles at them. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Daphne.”

“We know,” the closest man rumbles.

She deflates a little and returns to her plate. Chertovy idioty… I turn on my stool to shoot them a glare, which gets them to straighten up and attempt something close to friendly greetings.

“I’m Boris,” the one sitting closest to us offers up. “My apologies, miss. It’s just that we’re supposed to know who you are ahead of time. Force of habit, and all.”

Daphne smiles at him and nods her thanks. Her mouth is too full of scrambled eggs to answer with words. The rest at the table say their names—Anton, Ilya, Dem.

For her part, Daphne keeps glancing at the weapons strapped to their hips, but says nothing. I still have no idea what the hell last night was about, but something in the air feels like this is a significant shift for her.

We eat our breakfasts in silence. I watch closely to make sure she devours every bite. The way Daphne wraps her lips around the straw to drink her smoothie makes my mind wander elsewhere, to the point where I’m almost regretting having the guards right there as an audience.

She hops up to take our empty plates to the sink, but as I go to take them from her—“Here, let me”—she balks and twists and I somehow end up with my palm plastered against her belly instead of plucking the dishes.

Both of us freeze.

Idiot. Too far. Way too fucking far.

But just as I’m about to peel my hand away, I feel something. A flutter. A twitch. Life.

And so I leave my hand right where it is.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I know I look like a damn fool, but there’s no chance in hell I can bury these feelings down in the same dark place the rest of my emotions go. This shit is too strong, too big, too formless and life-changing to be sealed up in that cave in my chest.

I have a child. Right there, inches away from my touch, is my daughter.

My eyes float up to meet Daphne’s. She hasn’t breathed much more than I have since we ended up plastered together like this. And just like me, she doesn’t look like she wants the moment to end.

I don’t know what I’m doing here—but it’s beyond obvious that she doesn’t, either.

My fingers slowly edge the hem of her shirt up until I feel her warm, bare skin now pressed to my palm. It takes a shit ton of control not to growl my approval. But goddamn, something like heat spreads from the simple contact. I want so much more.

Another flutter pulls my attention back where it should be. As if our daughter is scolding me for straying.

I glance up to check the time—and that’s when I catch the guards watching us a little too closely. There’s nothing wrong with situational awareness, but we’re in my own damn kitchen, for fuck’s sake—this is obviously a safe space and there’s no reason for eight eyes to be so completely transfixed on my woman.

My grip on her baby bump tightens. Not enough to harm either of them, but enough to show these idioty where the territorial line is drawn.

My woman. My child.

“Derzhi svoi chertovy glaza pri sebe.” I keep my voice light for Daphne’s sake, but the message is clear to each of the guards who look away.

Keep your fucking eyes to yourself.

“Hm?” Daphne asks me.

“You should get ready for work,” I lie. “You don’t want to be late.”

It might be my imagination, but she seems almost reluctant to slip away. I wouldn’t complain one bit if she decided to call in and stay right here, pressed to me, for the rest of the day. Fuck, she should do that. I’d feel a lot better knowing exactly where she is and what she’s doing firsthand.

Unfortunately, we both have things to do.

And my duties start the second she’s out of earshot.

When she’s gone, I growl, “Keep your weapons covered at all times, especially around her.”

Boris is the first to balk. “At all times? This is a Bratva, sir. We’re going to carry guns. Everyone knows this.”

“In case your wandering eyes didn’t notice, that is my baby growing inside my woman.” My voice lowers into a dangerous snarl. I don’t like to be challenged, and I sure as fuck won’t take such bullshit from underlings like these. “Guns stress her out. Stress harms both of them. This shouldn’t be so fucking difficult for you to understand.”

“We understand,” Dem interjects. He buttons his coat around his waist and his gun disappears from sight. “Not a problem, pakhan.”

That solves that. But there is something nagging at the back of my mind. Boris is right about something: this is a Bratva. Our business is in guns, ammunition, the tools of death. We are proud of this. We thrive on this.

And yet here I am, putting some woman’s needs at the forefront of everything, including how we operate.

What the hell is happening to me?