But I’m not naïve enough to believe that that’s enough for him in the long run. He’s not the type of man to run from his duties, and the Bratva has been his entire life.
I turn to my side and caress the side of his face, forcing him to meet my gaze.
He smiles. Again, I see it, the sad tilt to his lips, the worried ebb and flow of his eyes.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
He says it gently, like he has the last few days every time I’ve asked what he’s thinking about.
But this time, I’m not willing to let it go.
“Artem,” I insist, “I may not have known you for very long, but I am still your wife. I want you to be able to tell me if there’s something getting you down.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes intentionally expressionless.
“You were thinking about the Bratva.” I fill i
