Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

Another day, another trudge through the muck of a job I used to love. More and more, I wonder if I ever actually loved it, or if I just loved the freedom away from Conrad and my parents and their never-ending attempts to control every last aspect of my life.

When the day ends, my afternoon guard brings me home. I don’t bother making a fuss about who drives this time.

“Hold on,” Viktor barks when we reach the penthouse door. He pulls me back and steps in front of me, drawing his gun in the same motion. I don’t know what’s got him on edge all of a sudden, but when I try to ask what’s wrong, he gestures for me to remain quiet.

My heart jumps into my throat.

Slowly and silently, he eases the door open and creeps inside.

Someone’s in the kitchen. That must have been what alerted him: someone clanking and clinking and making all sorts of noises with our dishes. Pasha isn’t due home for at least another hour or two, and we don’t usually have an in-house guard stay behind all day.

Viktor keeps his gun poised and ready. He takes one step closer, and…

“Since you’re not rushing in, I’m assuming you have a guard with you.”

What the hell? A woman?

A woman whose thickly accented voice Viktor automatically recognizes, because he relaxes and slides his gun back into the holster. “Bozhe moy,” he calls back. “Did Damien let you in?”

Through the hall from the kitchen appears a stunningly beautiful, albeit older, woman with the same dark hair and flashing eyes as Pasha and his siblings. Her smile is warm and welcoming when she sees me.

“Docha! It’s so wonderful to finally meet you! Pshk!” She gives me a thorough once-over. “Pasha said you were beautiful, but he was certainly holding back! And no,” she clucks as she turns to Viktor, “I have my own key. For emergencies.”

Viktor nods and turns to leave. He shoots me an apologetic little smile and makes quick work of getting the hell out of here.

The woman wraps her hands around my arms and continues to beam at me like I’ve hung the moon in the sky all by myself. “Look at you,” she croons. “Just look at you! All glowing and radiant and far too good for my moody son.”

The pieces fall into place. “You’re Pasha’s mother.”

“Asya,” she confirms with a wink. “Apologies for making myself at home; I just knew it would be ages before Pasha actually introduced us if it were left up to him.”

“How come?” I ask as carefully as I can.

She eyes me closely, almost skeptically. “I’m assuming he’s told you about our family…?”

I nod. “The Bratva, yeah. And how he’s in charge. The Boss with a capital ‘B’.”

“Correct. Well, what do you think happens to the big, bad Bratva boss when his mother comes around?” She winks at me again, releases my arms, and turns to sashay back toward the kitchen. “Heaven forbid he let you see his human side!”

I can’t help my laugh. At the same time, I realize I’m in no state to receive or entertain guests. “I, ah… I’m sorry, but I didn’t expect company⁠—”

“Go make yourself comfortable!” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

Alllrighty then. I head to the bedroom, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about my appearance, my home, my… everything. Pasha’s mother? Here, unannounced and uninvited? Is this going to be a regular thing?

She has a key to the place. She could pop in whenever she damn well pleases. Does Pasha want this? Is he okay with this?

Am I okay with this?

I change into a silky velour sweatsuit, increasingly self-conscious about my growing baby bump. What does she think about me? Am I just some gold-digging whore in her eyes, and all of this kindness is a front? Does she know that this was all completely unintentional?

The questions just keep coming. By the time I reach the kitchen, I’m a nervous wreck. “Asya…”

My words trail off when I see what’s waiting for me.

There’s a fresh honey cake with one slice already served up on a dessert plate, alongside a bowl of strawberries, a matching bowl of cream, and a crystal dish piled with dark chocolates all perfectly arranged on the kitchen island.

“Come! Sit,” Asya urges with a warm press of her hand to my back. “You are growing a baby. You deserve to be spoiled with sweets and treats.”

On second thought, I think this woman might be an angel.

I feel my cheeks heat as she ushers me onto a seat. “I, ah… thank you.”

“I made tea.” She sets a teacup on a saucer in front of me and gracefully pours the tea from a teapot I didn’t even know we had. “It’s good for you and the baby.”

“Th-thank you,” I stammer again. While waiting for it to cool, I watch her slide the slice of honey cake toward me before she carves out her own. “So, uh… what has Pasha been telling you about me?”

Asya smiles at me knowingly. “Worried what I must think about you? Some random young lady who got pregnant with my son’s baby and is now living in his home?”

I blush more, but she’s pretty much hit the nail on the head, so I nod reluctantly.

“I should be the one thanking you, docha.”

Safe to say that’s not at all what I’m expecting. “Sorry?”

Asya laughs. “I’ve been so worried about that boy. All work and no play turns anyone into an absolute ogre. I love my Pasha dearly, but he was becoming unbearable.” She gives me a sideways smile full of warmth and mischief. “Until he met you. So yes, I am very thankful to you, and for you.”

This is definitely not the interaction I expected to have with his mother. I mean, I’m not sure what all I really was expecting, but this warmth and kindness and overall affection? Not a bit.

Maybe it’s because Conrad’s parents are a lot more like my parents. Controlling, obsessive over the weirdest and worst details, micromanaging their son’s life as if his relationships are transactions rather than human connection. I wasn’t a future daughter-in-law to them—I was a pending purchase. A broodmare. In their perfect world, a trophy wife.

“So, tell me all about you.” Asya doesn’t even seem to mind that her mouth is still full with cake. Instead of gross, I find it endearing. She seems more… real that way. Still angelic, but less otherworldly. “And start from the beginning. Spare no detail!”

What do I say? Where do I start? I’m also trying to maintain a certain amount of anonymity, especially now that the dots have officially connected between Pasha and my sister’s exposure, and the subsequent family downfall. He doesn’t know I’m a Hamish. And if he doesn’t know, his mother definitely doesn’t know.

“I’m an events coordinator at an art gallery. Bloomington Brothers? Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Asya nods between bites of her cake. “Pasha mentioned it, back when he was planning to go to that auction. Some modern artist, I think? I took a look at the brochure and it’s just not my cup of tea.”

I snort into my own literal cup of tea. “Yeah. That would be my ex.”

“A-ha! I don’t blame you for dumping him. I know art is subjective, but that was just atrocious.”

God, I think I love this woman. “It’s certainly an… acquired taste. And I never acquired it.” I don’t want to keep talking about my ex-fiancé with… well, whatever Pasha is to me, whatever this arrangement can be labeled as, she’s still his mother. “What kind of art do you like?”

“Oh, I’m a classical lady.” Asya beams at me like she’s just shared a juicy secret. “Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Rembrandt… Levitan is a personal favorite, of course.”

This is a conversation I can have any time of day. I brighten and flash her a grin. “I love his Autumn Day, Sokolniki. It’s almost like a photograph, but the colors are just so lovely.”

Asya looks at me for a long, silent moment, that smile unwavering on her face even as she continues eating her cake and drinking her tea.

Did I say something wrong? Shit—did I pronounce “Sokolniki” wrong? Her accent makes me think she’s bilingual; the last thing I want to do is insult her by slaughtering her language.

“What do you like to cook?” she suddenly asks. Apparently, we’re done discussing art.

And now, we’re on a subject I’m a bit more ashamed about. “I, ah… I don’t really know how to cook.”

“No? Pasha has told me all about the meals you’ve made for him.”

“YouTube is a godsend,” I confess. My cheeks feel hot; I’m sure I look beet red. “I’m trying to learn more. I just, um… so… I didn’t get to learn. Growing up.” I glance up at her and am surprised to see genuine interest in her eyes. Not judgment or pity. “My mother doesn’t cook. I don’t know if she even knows how to operate a microwave, and that’s not even a joke, really. We have—had—cooks, and I was never really allowed in the kitchen. So when I went off to college, I just… I ate out a lot, or found stuff I could heat up in the oven or whatnot. But now that I’m having a baby, I want to be able to do more. I want to be able to make her homemade cookies and her favorite meals and just spend more time with her. To teach her, you know? And while I’m at it, I kinda want Pasha to think I’m a halfway decent cook who won’t poison our kid.”

I don’t realize I’ve been blabbering until the silence settles in. Asya blinks at me, still smiling, her plate now empty.

And then she’s hopping off the bar stool, whisking away our dirty dishes, and guiding me to my feet. Before I can get another word out, she ties an apron around my waist and hands me a bowl.

“Come, docha. You want to learn to cook? I will teach you. And believe you me,” she adds with a playful nudge, “if my son isn’t falling to his knees for you after he takes a bite, he doesn’t deserve you.”