Page 100 of Single Mom's Daddies
I laugh. “Give me a damn minute, woman. No wonder you need three of us. We’re not machines, you know.”
Her giggles make me feel light again. Human. It’s not long before I’m buried inside of her once more, and when she shakes under me, crying out my name, I fall with her. Into her. Into the silence that comes after.
I stay there, forehead against hers, chest heaving.
We lie tangled on the floor for a long time, the silence heavy but not cold. My back rests against the leg of the couch, her body curled between my thighs, head on my chest. Her breathing is steady now. Mine takes longer.
The fire across the room has burned down low—just red coals and memory. The only light comes from the lamp above the sink, casting a warm glow that paints her skin in gold.
There’s still blood on my knuckles. A smear of it dried near her shoulder. Her fingers trace idle shapes across my stomach like she’s grounding herself too.
She hasn’t asked what happened. Maybe she doesn’t need to. Saffron is many things—smart, sharp, brave—but maybe the thing that undoes me most is her quiet.
The way she gives me space without withdrawing. The way she lets me rage without fearing me. The way she holds me now—like I’m worth being held.
I exhale through my nose, fingers brushing her bare spine. “I didn’t kill him, if you’re wondering. But I’m going to let someone else do that.”
A pause. Then, gently, “Why tell me?”
“Because I wanted you to know that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. For you.”
Her hand curls over my heart.
“Even if it means getting my hands bloody,” I say. “Even if it means sending someone to die.”
She nods, barely, against my chest.
“I can’t lose her. Or you,” I whisper. “I don’t think I’d come back from it.”
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” I say, throat tight. “But I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You’re exactly where you should be,” she murmurs.
We sit in silence again. And maybe that’s what saves me. Not the sex. Not the confession. Not the punishment I dealt out earlier.
But this. Her. The quiet. Her belief in me. She’s the future I didn’t think I deserved. I will do anything to keep it.
28
NIKOLAI
The wind cutshard through the alley off Ashland, sharp enough to make my coat flap and my teeth grind. Milwaukee’s weather always has bite, but today it feels personal. Like the whole city knows something’s coming, and it wants me to feel it first.
I round the corner and see the front of the ballet studio.
The building hasn’t changed since the last time I stood outside it—same faded stucco, same cracked sidewalk, same pink hand-painted lettering in the windows. But something’s off.
There’s a figure leaning against the wall just to the left of the door. Hoodie up, jeans sagging, cigarette burning slow between two fingers. He’s staring through the glass like he’s waiting to see who’s inside. Waiting for someone to come out alone.
I recognize the face even before he turns fully.
Costello muscle. Low-level. Too twitchy to be top-tier. But he’s got that oily swagger the crew breeds into their boys—shoulders hunched, eyes always moving, like he’s ready to run or bitedepending on who approaches. Too much ego, not enough sense. The perfect goon.
I don’t slow my pace.
He notices me three steps before I reach him. His smirk falters. “Yo, this is private property.”
