Page 2 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

“Uncomfortable?” His laugh is bitter. “You walk around here in that dress, serving drinks and smiling at every guy who looks at you, but I’m making you uncomfortable?”

“Please—”

His grip shifts to my wrist, and suddenly, I’m not playing nice anymore. I’m trapped, and he’s too close, and the hallway feels like it’s shrinking around us. “Let me go, Carter.”

“You don’t know what you want. You think you do, but you don’t. Someone like me could take care of you. You wouldn’t have to work in a place like this anymore, dressed like a slut.”

Before I can respond, shove him away, scream, or do any of the things racing through my mind, a shadow falls across us.

“You need to get away from what’s mine.”

The voice is quiet and controlled, with just the faintest hint of an accent. Russian, maybe. Carter’s head snaps up, and his grip on my wrist loosens as he takes in the man standing behind him.

It’shim. The man in black from the corner table. Up close, he’s even more imposing—easily six-four, with shoulders that strain against his expensive suit and eyes like winter storms. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look anything at all, which somehow makes him more terrifying than if he’d been shouting.

“What the hell—” Carter starts, but the words die in his throat when those gray eyes land on him.

“I said step away.” There’s no threat in the words. No raised voice or clenched fists. Just a simple statement delivered with the kind of quiet authority that suggests this man is used to being obeyed.

Carter releases my wrist like I’ve burned him, stumbling backward. “Look, man, this doesn’t concern you. We’re just chatting here.”

“No. You were leaving.”

It’s not a suggestion. Carter must hear it too, because he straightens his shirt and mutters something under his breath, probably a curse, though I can’t make it out. He shoots me one last look, wounded and resentful, before disappearing back into the main club.

I expect the stranger to follow suit, to return to his table now that the situation is handled. Instead, he steps closer, and I become acutely aware that I’ve simply traded one problem for another.

He touches the spot where Carter grabbed my wrist, curling his fingers around the same spot with a gentleness that surprises me. His touch is warm, calm, and completely different from Carter’s desperate grabbing. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

I should pull away as I thank him and walk back to work while pretending this never happened. Instead, I study his face, noting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair is perfectly styled despite the heated situation, and the small scar that cuts through his left eyebrow.

“I’m fine.” The words come out breathier than I intended. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t release my wrist. Instead, he traces his thumb across my pulse point, and I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is beating.

“What’s mine,” I repeat, finding my voice. “That’s what you said to him. What’s mine.”

His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Did I?”

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

“No?” He studies me with those unsettling gray eyes, like he’s reading something in my face that I don’t even know is there. “Interesting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he releases my wrist and steps back, and I immediately miss the warmth of his touch.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he says, and then he’s gone, melting back into the crowd like he was never there at all.

I stand in the hallway for a long moment, my wrist tingling where he touched it, trying to process what just happened. A stranger intervened when Carter got handsy. That part makes sense. Men like him, wealthy and powerful, probably consider the entire club their territory, but the way he looked at me, like he knew me. Like he’d been waiting for me… That was unsettling.

I shake my head and return to the main floor, grabbing my tray and diving back into the rhythm of work. Table fourteen needs another round, and table nine is ready for their check. These are normal, manageable things.

When I risk a glance toward the corner table, he’s still there and still watching me with that same intense focus that makes my skin feel too tight and my breath catch in my throat.

I deliver drinks and clear tables and smile at customers, but I’m hyperaware of his presence. Every time I move through his line of sight, I feel his attention like a physical touch. It should make me uncomfortable and want to hide in the back until his group leaves.

Instead, it makes me want to walk over there and demand to know what game he’s playing.

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