Page 17 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I take the chair across from him, forcing my hands steady as I reach for toast. The clink of silverware fills the silence. My appetite’s gone, but I force a bite, chewing mechanically.
Finally, he glances up.
It’s brief, but it’s enough. His eyes pin me where I sit, sharp and knowing. Not angry. Amused. A faint smirk touches his mouth before he looks back at his plate.
Heat floods my face. My fork scrapes too hard against porcelain, the sound shrill. I drop it quickly, pretending to wipe my mouth with the napkin.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t scold. He doesn’t need to. That look said everything:I know what you tried. And I let you know I know.
I swallow hard, humiliation burning my throat. My hands curl tight in my lap, nails digging crescents into my skin. I want to spit something at him, anything to claw back a shred of dignity, but the words choke.
Instead, I force myself to meet his gaze when he glances up again. “The eggs are cold,” I say flatly, stabbing another bite.
His smirk deepens, subtle but there. “Maybe you should’ve come down sooner.”
I glare, but he just returns to his food, calm as if the conversation never happened.
Afterward, I push back from the table with a scrape of the chair. The guard waiting by the door straightens, but I lift my chin and stride past, refusing to look back.
By the time I reach my room, my hands are trembling. I slam the door, lean against it, and let out a shaky laugh. “Always five steps ahead,” I whisper to myself. “Well, not forever.”
Because even though I know now he’s watching every move, even though his smirk still burns under my skin, I refuse to give in.
I just need one moment. One mistake from someone who isn’t as ruthless as him.
Still, when I lie awake that night, staring at the balcony doors again, the memory of his amused gaze won’t leave me. My chest tightens in a way I don’t want to name. It isn’t only fear prickling under my skin anymore—it’s something hotter, sharper, something that terrifies me even more.
Chapter Eight - Dimitri
I’ve never had much patience for waiting games. Most people break quickly enough under pressure, and those who don’t, you remove before they turn into a problem.
Annie Vale is different. She’s not reckless enough to push outright, not cautious enough to stay still. She hovers in that narrow space between, always testing, always calculating, like a caged animal checking the bars again and again just in case one has weakened overnight.
I’ve given her time to show her hand, and she hasn’t. So I decide to force one of my own.
The delivery is simple by design. A locked black case, light enough to carry with one hand but sealed tight. It doesn’t matter what’s inside; what matters is what she thinks it might be. I hand it to her in the study, the leather handle pressed against her palm like a leash I’m allowing her to hold for a moment.
“Deliver it,” I tell her.
Her fingers tighten. “To where?”
I slide a folded slip of paper across the desk. The address is scrawled in neat block letters, a location in a neighborhood where shadows linger longer than daylight.
“When I get there?”
“You hand it over. That’s all.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicion bright and sharp. “What if someone asks what’s in it?”
“Don’t open it. Don’t ask questions.”
The corner of her mouth twists, a hint of sarcasm slipping through the fear. “That’s reassuring.”
I lean back in my chair, watching her closely. “It isn’t supposed to be.”
She holds my gaze a moment longer than most would dare, then looks down at the case. Her nod is small, clipped. She understands this is a test, even if she doesn’t know what kind.
I assign one man to escort her. Sergei. Green enough to make her think she might get away with something, steady enough to report back every detail she thinks he doesn’t notice. I make no effort to reassure her, no promises of safety. That’s the point.
