Dark Christmas: A Bratva Next Door Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

I’m completely charmed by her.

She’s the opposite of pretentious, and after the women I’ve dated in the past, it’s refreshing. There’s something genuine about her, a little bit shy but not in a way that feels forced—like she’s still figuring me out as well as herself.

I find myself glancing up from the stove, watching her as she watches me. The way she nervously fidgets with the hem of her shirt, or how she bites her lip when she thinks I’m not looking—it’s adorable.

“So,” I say, breaking the comfortable silence, “what do you like best about baking?”

She blinks as if caught off guard, but then her eyes light up. “I don’t know, there’s something magical about it. You take a bunch of simple ingredients—flour, sugar, butter—and with the right care, you turn them into something that makes people happy. I love how it’s both science and art. You have to be precise, but there’s room to be creative, too.”

Her passion spills out in her words, and I can’t help but be drawn to it. So many people lack passion, drifting through life without truly caring about what they do. She’s different. It’s rare.

Once dinner’s ready, I plate up the beef stroganoff and place the dishes on the counter.

“Could you grab the wine and two glasses from the cupboard?” I ask, nodding toward the kitchen cabinet. “We’ll take everything to the dining room.”

She smiles, grabbing the bottle and glasses, and I watch her, as if under a spell.

We walk into the dining room, plates in hand, and I grab a loaf of bread from the kitchen counter on the way. The room is as pristine as ever, and I find myself admitting something I rarely do.

“I’ve never actually used this room for anything except business meetings.”

She laughs, the sound light and airy. “That’s a shame. It’s beautiful in here.”

She’s right, of course. The dining room is big and spacious, with high ceilings and tall windows that overlook the back garden. The sweeping view of the meticulously kept greenery outside adds a touch of serenity to the room. A long, dark wood table stretches out before us, perfectly polished, surrounded by plush chairs that have barely been sat in.

We sit down and get settled in and I pour the wine. I hold my glass up, meeting her eyes.

“To unexpected company,” I say. It feels appropriate. This night wasn’t planned but I’m already enjoying it more than I anticipated.

“To unexpected company,” she repeats with a smile, clinking her glass against mine.

We each take a sip, then she digs into the beef stroganoff. After her first bite her eyes widen, and she makes a soft, satisfied sound.

“Oh my God, this is amazing! I’m definitely going to need the recipe.”

I smile, watching her enjoy the meal. “I’m glad you like it.”

She takes a few more bites, savoring each one before she washes it down with a sip of wine. Then, she looks at me, curiosity in her eyes.

“So, you’re in cybersecurity?”

I pause, realizing I’m not used to people asking me about my work. When they do, it’s never for personal interest. Still, there’s no harm in answering.

“I am. And I secured a solid client today,” I respond.

She smiles, genuine and warm. “Congrats. That’s awesome. Do you enjoy what you do?”

I nod, keeping my response brief. “I do. It’s a good feeling, knowing you’re providing security for others.” I take another sip of my wine, hesitating slightly before adding, “It’s not too different from what I did before.”

I scold myself internally the second the words leave my mouth.

Careful.

I don’t talk about my past, and this isn’t the moment to start. I can feel her gaze on me, and I know she’s picking up on what I didn’t say.

“What did you do before?” she asks, the curiosity in her voice mixed with a hint of caution.

I meet her eyes, offering a slow, deliberate smile. “I was in a more… private kind of security. More personal.”

Her expression shifts to guarded intrigue. She’s smart, and she knows there’s more to the story. But for now, I leave it at that. Some truths aren’t meant to be shared so easily.

The warm light from the sunset pours through the windows, casting a soft glow on her face. It brings out the green in her eyes, making them almost hypnotic. I find myself momentarily transfixed by her, by the way she carries herself—stunning, even in her simplicity.

“So,” I ask, breaking the silence, “tell me about yourself, Amelia. Where are you from?”

She hesitates for a moment then says, “I’m from L.A. originally. Moved here after my parents passed.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, watching her reaction closely.

She nods, offering a small, bittersweet smile. “Thanks. It was a car accident. I was away at college when it happened.” She pauses, taking a sip of wine. “I guess that’s part of the reason why I came to San Francisco. A fresh start, you know?”

I can relate to her. “I know what that’s like. I lost my parents too. Illness took my mother, and my father followed soon after. It was like he couldn’t bear to live without her.”

Our eyes meet, and there’s a moment of quiet understanding between us. Loss, especially at an early age, leaves scars you can’t always see.

“Do you like the city?” I ask, steering the conversation toward lighter ground.

She brightens a little. “I love it here. There’s something about the energy, the mix of people, the way every neighborhood feels like its own world. It’s freeing.”

I lean back in my chair, intrigued by how much she’s opening up. “What did you do after your parents passed?”

She takes a breath. “They left me a small trust fund. Not enough to change my life, but enough to get by. I don’t have any family left, so I used the money to buy my home and a space for the bakery with my best friend. We opened the bakery on the first floor, and she and her husband live upstairs.” She smiles softly. “Claire’s my business partner. I handle the financial and marketing side of things, and I’m also writing my first novel.”

My eyebrows lift slightly at that. “A novel?”

Her face instantly flushes a deep red, and I sense I’ve stumbled onto something she hadn’t planned to share. Her lips twitch, like she’s debating how much more she wants to say.

“It’s a work in progress,” she admits, brushing a hand through her hair. “No details until it’s ready for publishing. If it ever gets there.”

I chuckle. “Fair enough. I won’t press for spoilers.”

She relaxes a little, but I can still see some anxiety in her eyes. She let a little secret slip, and that vulnerability only makes her more intriguing.

She grins, shifting the conversation back to me. “So, enough about me. You’re from Russia? What brought you here?”

It’s been so long since anyone’s asked that question, I’d almost forgotten the polished lies I’d crafted over the years. “I was part of a… family business,” I begin, my tone measured. “Over time, my focus shifted to cybersecurity, and I decided to go off on my own. I’ve always had a thing for technology.”

The truth, of course, is a bit darker, but she doesn’t need to know that.

I take another sip of wine, watching her reaction. She’s curious, but not suspicious. “Family businesses can be stifling,” I add, letting a trace of bitterness slip into my voice. “Controlling. After a while, it felt like too many strings attached.”

Her eyes flicker with understanding. “So, you cashed out and moved to San Francisco to start over?”NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

I nod. “Exactly. A few years ago, I left it all behind. Came here for a new adventure.” It’s a line I’ve used before, but something about saying it to her feels different. I’m too close to telling her the truth.

“That’s another thing we have in common,” she says with a soft smile.

I meet her eyes, nodding again. “Seems so.” I pause, then add, “All of my family is still back in Russia. So, for the most part, I’m alone here.”

“What’s your company like? Big operation?”

I shake my head. “It’s just me and a few contractors. None of them live in the city, though. Mostly remote work.”

“Doesn’t that get lonely?”

I pause, watching her carefully. “Not at all,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

Truth is, I don’t waste time thinking about loneliness. It’s a concept that doesn’t fit into my world—keeping a low profile ensures survival.

She smiles. “Sounds like we’re both small-business, entrepreneurial types.”

A small smirk plays on my lips. “Indeed, we are.”

To my surprise, I’m actually enjoying this conversation more than I thought I would. Talking with her comes easily. She’s not trying to impress me or dig too deeply into things I’d rather keep hidden.

But as much as I’m intrigued by her mind, my body is demanding attention. The physical pull I feel toward her is growing stronger, nearly impossible to ignore.

A dark part of me—one I’ve long since learned to control—wants to take her right here, right now. I imagine her spread across the dining room table, naked and vulnerable, her legs open for me, her eyes filled with pure desire.

The thought of her writhing beneath me, giving herself over completely… is enough to make my pulse quicken.

I snap back to reality, controlling my facial expressions as I rein in the surge of lust.

Not yet, I tell myself.

She glances at me, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

I blink, shaking off the dark thoughts that had taken root. I lie easily, slipping into a practiced smile. “I’m fine. Just thinking about work.”

“Oh, so now I’m boring you?”

“Amelia, you could never bore me,” I say with more feeling than I intended.

We finish the meal, and as she sets her fork down, she practically gushes. “Melor, seriously, that was amazing. I’ve never had beef stroganoff that good in my life.”

“Glad you liked it.”

“Liked it? I loved it. You might’ve missed your calling, you know. Could’ve been a chef.”

I watch as she picks up her plate and heads to the sink, and before I know it, she’s starting the dishes. I follow her, half-expecting to feel indifferent, but instead, I find myself enjoying this small, domestic moment with her.

“You don’t have to help,” I say, though I make no effort to stop her.

“I know,” she replies, smiling over her shoulder. “But I like helping. Besides, it’s the least I can do after you cooked.”

We move around the kitchen easily, passing dishes, scrubbing, drying. There’s an ease between us, though the tension is growing with every second. Every brush of her hand against mine, every glance, feels charged.

I hand her a dish to dry, and our fingers touch for just a moment longer than necessary. She meets my eyes, and for a brief second, neither of us moves.

“Thanks again for dinner,” she says softly, breaking the silence. But her voice has a different tone now, something quieter, more vulnerable.

“Anytime,” I respond.

We stand facing each other, her gaze locking onto mine, those gorgeous green eyes drawing me in like a magnet. She’s so close now, and I can hear her breath catching in her throat.

I can’t resist her any longer.

I step forward, my hands finding her hips, fingers digging into her soft curves as I pull her against me. She’s so small in my grip, fitting perfectly against my body, and I can feel the heat radiating off her.

She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t try to pull away. Her lips part slightly, her breath shaky, and I close the distance, sealing her mouth with mine.

The kiss is firm and commanding, and she responds instantly, melting into me like she’s been waiting for this moment just as long as I have.