Page 21 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I glance at Dimitri then. His face is carved from stillness, his gaze locked on me. He hasn’t spoken. He doesn’t need to. The warning is there, sharp and undeniable.
I hide my reaction by gathering the empty tray, but a spark of satisfaction slips through. I’d tested the water, and the ripples reached him.
Still, as I retreat to the hall, I feel his eyes burning between my shoulder blades, and my small victory twists into something else. Heat licks at my neck, unwanted and unshakable.
This isn’t just about danger anymore.
It’s about him watching, and me letting him.
***
The house is never truly quiet, not even at night. There’s always something: the creak of old wood, the faint shuffle of guards changing position, the hum of electricity through the walls. Sometimes, when the corridors are empty and the air is still, the silence feels alive. Watching. Waiting.
It’s in that kind of silence that I find him.
I’m returning from the library with a book I won’t read, just something to occupy my hands, something that makes me feel like I’ve chosen my own night instead of having it dictated to me. The corridor stretches ahead, long and dim, the sconces throwing soft pools of light onto marble floors. My steps are light, cautious.
Then he appears.
Dimitri emerges from a side hall, his stride unhurried. He sees me instantly—of course he does—but he doesn’t speak. He stops in the middle of the corridor, hands at his sides, his presence filling the space like the walls bend to make room for him.
My chest tightens. I grip the book harder and keep walking, forcing myself not to falter under the weight of his gaze. Each step echoes louder than it should, and the closer I get, the heavier the air feels.
He says nothing. Just watches.
The silence stretches long enough to scrape my nerves raw. By the time I draw even with him, my pulse is hammering so fast I’m sure he can hear it.
Then his voice brushes close to my ear. Low, deliberate, soft enough that it feels private in a way it shouldn’t.
“You like playing games,” he murmurs, “but you don’t know the rules yet.”
I freeze mid-step, the words coiling around me. Heat slides down my spine, prickling every inch of skin. I don’t turn, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the flush that floods my cheeks. My grip on the book tightens until my knuckles ache.
When I glance back over my shoulder, he’s already gone.
No footsteps, no door opening, no sound at all. Just vanished into the shadows like he was never there.
I stand in the corridor for a long moment, my breath caught, my body buzzing. Then I move, too quickly, almost running the last stretch to my room.
Once inside, I lock the door, lean against it, and force air into my lungs. My hands are trembling. I tell myself it’s anger—that he startled me, that he’s toying with me like I’m nothing more than another piece on his board.
It’s not anger twisting low in my stomach; it’s the memory of how close he stood.
The words replay in my head as I set the book aside and crawl into bed:“You like playing games, but you don’t know the rules yet.”He was right there, close enough that the heat of him brushed my skin, close enough that I caught the faint bite of his cologne, woodsmoke and something sharper.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My heart hasn’t slowed. Every time I shut my eyes, I see the curve of his mouth, hear that tone, not cruel, not mocking, but certain. Like he’s already decided how this game ends.
I twist under the sheets, restless, cursing myself. I should be thinking about escape, about routes and codes and guards who blink too often. I should be reminding myself that he killed a man in front of me, that I’m here because he dragged me into his world like a possession.
Instead, I can’t stop thinking about how my pulse betrayed me completely.
I pull the blanket tighter around me, squeezing my eyes shut, but the heat doesn’t fade. It lingers in every part of me, curling, coiling.
Sleep doesn’t come. I turn from one side to the other, twist the blanket tighter, shove it down again. My body won’t settle, like the echo of his voice has rewired the very rhythm of my heartbeat. Every time I start to drift, I feel it again—the heat of his breath by my ear, the weight of those words.
I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow, groaning. “You’re insane,” I whisper to myself. “He’s your captor. He’s dangerous. He’s not supposed to—”
The sentence dies. Because what? He’s not supposed to make me feel like this? He’s not supposed to look at me like I’m worth studying? The truth is worse: he does, and part of me likes it.
