Page 35 of Enforcer Daddy
"I can teach you something," he offered, still on the floor, still making himself non-threatening in a way that must have been killing his pride. "A breathing technique. It helps quiet the noise."
"I don't need—"
"In for four," he started anyway, his voice low and steady. "Hold for four. Out for four. We do it together."
He demonstrated, and despite myself, I found my breathing trying to match his. In for four—one, two, three, four. Hold—one, two, three, four. Out—one, two, three, four.
"Again," he said, and we did it again. And again. Each cycle pulling me further from that bedroom in the Henderson house, anchoring me to this moment, this room, this man who was sitting on my floor in the middle of the night teaching me to breathe.
The tremors started to ebb, replaced by exhaustion so complete it felt like drowning. My body sagged against the headboard, spent from fighting an enemy who wasn't there.
"We can quiet the monster in us," Dmitry said after what might have been ten minutes or an hour of breathing together.
"You don't have a monster in you," I said, the words automatic.
He stood then, movement fluid despite having been on the floor for so long. In the dim light, he peeled off his t-shirt, and I tensed, ready to fight again if necessary. But he just stood there, letting the city light from the window illuminate his torso.
Scars. So many scars.
A knife line under his ribs, pale and raised. A puckered burn on his shoulder that looked like someone had held something hot against him for a long time. Near his hip, the distinctivecoin-shape of a bullet wound. Each mark a story of violence survived.
"Everyone has monsters," he said simply.
Before I could stop myself, I reached out, fingers finding that rib scar. The skin was smooth and strange under my fingertips, evidence of damage that had healed but never really gone away. His hand came up, gentle but firm, capturing mine and returning it to the duvet.
"Not tonight," he said. "Sleep."
He disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a glass of water that he set on the nightstand within easy reach. Then he went to his drawer, pulled out one of his t-shirts—soft, oversize, the black one I'd stolen twice already—and set it on the foot of the bed.
"If you want to change," he said, not looking at me. "Sometimes fresh clothes help."
I thought he'd leave then, return to his room or the couch or wherever he went when he wasn't managing his captive houseguest. Instead, he pulled the armchair from the corner to the window, settling into it barefoot and shirtless, clearly planning to stay.
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he interrupted. "Sleep, Eva."
He started counting again, quiet in the darkness. "In for four . . . hold for four . . . out for four." A rhythm, a heartbeat, something steady to hold onto while my mind tried to drag me back to places I didn't want to go.
I changed into his shirt while he kept his eyes on the window, the fabric soft and smelling like his detergent, like safety I didn't know how to trust yet. Then I curled into the bed, Bear's snoring from his pen the only other sound besides Dmitry's counting.
It was only then, on the edge of sleep, that I remembered we’d kissed, just hours before. It sent warmth through my body, my cheeks flushed with shame and desire.
I breathed—it was all I could do to find my way back to calm. I fell asleep to the sound of Dmitry counting—numbers in the dark, steady as promises, reliable as sunrise.
And when I dreamed again, it was of kisses, soft lips, and hard fingers.
Theeggsonmyplate looked perfect—fluffy, golden, exactly how I liked them—but they might as well have been cardboard for all I could taste them. I pushed them around with my fork, creating patterns in the yolk while Dmitry watched me from across the kitchen island with those careful eyes he got when he was cataloging my damage.
He set down his coffee with a deliberate click against the marble. "I'm sorry."
The words hit me like cold water. I looked up, certain I'd misheard. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated, and there was something in his voice I'd never heard before. Regret, maybe. Or recognition. "I've been keeping you locked away, controlled, thinking it would keep you safe. But isolation makes trauma worse. Triggers it. That’s why the nightmares came."
I stared at him, fork frozen halfway to my mouth. Dmitry Volkov, the Beast of the bratva, was apologizing.
"I wanted to keep you safe," he continued, those grey eyes steady on mine. "But I made you a prisoner instead. Caged you like I've been caging parts of myself."
