Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

“What size would you like that in?”

I consider the different options. “Give me two of the travel vials and four large bottles. Personalized, as we discussed. My assistant will handle the payment.”

I hit the button on the receiver for Paris to pick up and finish everything that needs doing. Today’s first task is to have a custom perfume made for Daphne to wear. Something from me that marks her as mine in the best way.

Last night was incredible. Much needed. Long awaited.

Until it turned into something different that I still can’t quite figure out.

Why did she run from me? What on earth did I do to make her hide in the shower and lock me out of my own bedroom?

I haven’t pushed her for an answer. It’s possible that our little romp pushed her far enough and that’s what sent her into this panic. She didn’t even give her driver a run for his money this morning like she usually does. Just packed up, piled in, and let him take her to work without a word of complaint.

I shouldn’t let it bother me. It shouldn’t bother me.

But I can’t tamper down the nagging feeling that I need to do something. I need to fix this.

Someone knocks at the door. It’s Mak; his head pokes through right before a dossier in his hand follows. “I’ve got updates.”

I wave for him to come in. “What did you find?”

“As expected, she’s totally clean.” He sets the file down on my desk and settles into the chair facing me. “No parking fines, no speeding tickets. Not even a late payment on any of her prior residences.”

I grab the file and start flipping through the pages. It’s pretty damn thin for a person’s whole life report. “Too clean?”

“You would think so, but witnesses and back records confirm she’s just super conscientious about following the rules. Some people are like that. Not me, but some people.”

I want to feel relieved. I want to be able to tuck this away as basic due diligence and move on to discussing more pressing matters, like Brennan and the fucked-up contract.

So why can’t I? Why is my gut screaming at me that there’s more to this than meets the eye?

“There is one thing,” Mak adds with considerable hesitation.

There it is. My heart leaps into my throat. I nod for him to continue.

“Well, maybe two things. We can’t find her sister.”

I could smack him for keeping me so tense. “So? Keep looking.”

Mak drums his fingers on the armrest and blows out a puff of air. “No, I mean, we can’t find anything to prove she even has a sister.”

That makes me pause. “Go on…”

“It’s tied up with the second thing. Daphne Covington? She’s gotta be from out of town, because all her records are fairly recent. We’re talking about within the past five years. She’s not old, of course, but there should be a lot more than the one employer and a tiny handful of apartments on her record. Even her driver’s license doesn’t go back that far. My guy at the DMV told me he usually sees this with non-public name changes.”

I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “If she’s got scrubbed records, that could explain why we can’t find her sister.”

Mak leans back in his chair and turns it to gaze out the window. “I’ll have my guys keep looking. It’s been a lot of weeding through names and duplicate paperwork, so⁠—”

That catches my attention. “Duplicate what?”

He shrugs. “You know how sometimes, people share names or addresses and credit reports mix that shit up? Your Daphne just happens to cross paths with a completely different Daphne at a few of the addresses. But that one left town several years ago, which pans out with our Daphne’s supposed arrival.”

There’s something to it, but I’m instantly distracted by his choice of words. “Our Daphne?”

Mak smirks and steals a sideways glance at me. “Oh, come on. You know Mama was on her phone the second she left your place.”

I grit my teeth. “What did she say?”

“Would you like the conversation before she and Sofiya went crazy over wedding ideas, or after?”

It’s all I can do not to faceplant onto the desk. “We barely⁠—”

“Oh, come on. Don’t even start with that shit. ‘We barely know each other but we’ve created a whole new human being for this world.’ I gotta agree with Mama here. If you felt the connection enough to bed her, breed her, and bring her home, you should feel that same connection to wed her, too.”

“Don’t make it sound so crass.” I scrunch my face in an ugly frown. Breed her? Hell no.

Mak turns his chair back to me and smiles. “So you agree. You get a beautiful new bride and I get a sister-in-law.”

The back of my teeth grind together once more. Fuck Makari and his logic. Fuck the guy who taught him how to spin debates into his favor.

Oh, wait. That guy was me.

“I’ll think about it,” is the only answer I feel ready enough to give him.

He raises a brow. “Alright, if that’s how you want to play it. Just remember, while you’re thinking about it, someone else can come along and just do it.”

“The fuck do you mean?”

“Didn’t she have some ex you tangled with at one point? An ex-fiancé?” Again, he shrugs. “He lost her to you. Without a ring on her finger, what’s stopping her from fleeing to the next hero?”

He’s gone from toying with my temper to straight-up stomping on it. “You’ve made your point. Now, kindly fuck off.”

Mak doesn’t take it personally. He never does. He just gives me another one of his smug “I told you so” smirks and heads for the door. “Don’t forget, big brother: your gain is our gain. And your loss is our loss.”

The door can’t slam hard enough behind him.

I don’t need my siblings poking around my business and telling me what to do to manifest their idea of a happily-ever-after. But he does have a point: I don’t need some random stranger swooping in and sweeping Daphne off her feet as easily as I did when she came to me for help with Ewing.

Images of Daphne and my mother laughing and talking together swim through my mind. It was… nice, I suppose. I could tell how much Mama adores her, and it seemed like Daphne really enjoyed the Chekhov matriarch’s unique brand of crazy.

But then new images start floating into the mix.

Daphne at the kitchen island, giggling and spooning cookie dough with a beautiful little girl who has Mama’s hair and Daphne’s eyes.

That same little girl snuggled between us while we watch a movie.

It is so crazy to want that? Is it so wrong to want Daphne to be my wife?

I give myself a little shake to brush off the invasive ideas. None of them do anything productive for the company or the Bratva. I was getting along just fine, back when all this family lovey-dovey stuff was Mak’s problem and not mine.

Still…

“Hey, it’s Chekhov. I need to place a rush order. The center stone should be around three carats. More if you have it. Four? Perfect. Make it four, then.”