Page 22 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I shove the thought away, but it clings stubbornly.
I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and stare at the curtains drawn across the balcony doors. The room is silent, but I still feel watched. Like if I pulled them open, I’d find him standing there, leaning casually against the railing, waiting for me to make the first move.
My skin prickles at the idea.
I press my palms to my eyes, willing the heat to fade, but it doesn’t. I can still hear him, low and certain:“You like playing games, but you don’t know the rules yet.”
He’s right. I don’t know the rules.
Lying here, pulse hammering, cheeks burning, I realize something even more dangerous.
I want to learn them.
Chapter Ten - Dimitri
I notice the change almost at once.
She doesn’t shrink anymore. Annie used to keep her head down, keep her steps brisk, keep her distance as if pretending my presence was incidental. Now, when my attention finds her—and it always does—she angles into it.
She doesn’t look away. Her gaze meets mine without hesitation, steady, sharp. Sometimes it’s challenge. Sometimes it’s something darker.
It doesn’t annoy me. It should, but it doesn’t.
It intrigues me.
Most people fold long before this point. They mistake politeness for loyalty, obedience for devotion. Annie hasn’t made that mistake. She isn’t trying to win me over with soft compliance. She’s testing me.
The more she resists folding, the more invested I become in bending her.
She’s clever about it, subtle in ways that most men in this house would overlook. She lingers in rooms longer than necessary, her footsteps dragging a fraction when she should have left already. She brushes too close when passing by, not enough to be called out, but enough that I feel the presence of her body in the air.
When she answers questions, it’s never with the neat submission of someone who understands her place. It’s with half-truths laced with a boldness she knows I’ll notice.
I let it play out.
When she lingers in my office after delivering a folder, I don’t dismiss her immediately. I continue with my work, letting her stand there in silence. After a full minute, when most wouldhave excused themselves, I look up. Her chin is tilted, her arms loose at her sides.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
Her lips twitch. “No. Just making sure you didn’t need anything more.”
I let the pause stretch until she shifts her weight. Then I return to my papers. “If I need something, I’ll tell you.”
She leaves, but her smile shadows the door as it shuts. She thinks it was her victory. I allow her to think so.
Another time, she walks past me in the corridor, close enough that the fabric of her sleeve whispers against mine. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge it, but her pulse jumps in her throat. I notice everything.
When I test her directly, she never flinches.
I sharpen my tone with questions that cut deeper than the words suggest.
“What did he say to you?” I ask after she delivers papers from a meeting with an associate.
“Nothing worth repeating,” she answers, eyes meeting mine, steady.
“Nothing?” I push.
Her mouth curves slightly. “Nothing you didn’t already know.”
