Page 35 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
When he finally speaks, it’s softer, but no less dangerous. “Is that what you want to believe?”
I fumble with the zipper, refusing to look at him. My hands tremble, the metal teeth snagging under my fingers. “It’s the truth.”
The mattress shifts, the sound of his weight moving. My heart lurches. I don’t dare turn, but I can feel him closer, the gravity of him pressing into the room.
“Annie.” My name in his voice is too much—too intimate, too steady. “You can lie to yourself. Not to me.”
I swallow hard, heat climbing my throat. My reflection in the bathroom mirror flashes in my mind: that softness I hated, the telltale trace of something I can’t name. He’s right, and I hate him for it.
So I do the only thing I can; I armor myself in distance.
My hands smooth the dress over my hips, fingers fussing with seams that don’t need fixing. I cross the room without glancing at him, every step measured, careful, like if I pretend hard enough, I can erase the feel of his mouth on mine, his body over mine, the sound of my own voice crying his name.
His eyes burn into me as I reach the door.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
I pause, knuckles white against the frame.
“Say you regret it,” he presses, “and mean it this time.”
The air thickens. I force myself to inhale, to turn slightly, to meet his gaze. His eyes are sharp, but not cruel. Searching. My chest aches with the effort of standing my ground.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” I whisper, voice unsteady, “and I meant it.”
Something flickers across his face—doubt, amusement, I can’t tell. Then he leans back slowly, settling against the headboard again, dismissing me without another word.
I slip out before I betray myself.
The hallway is cool, the marble cold beneath my bare feet. My steps echo too loud, every sound a reminder of how raw I am, how thin my resolve feels. I hug myself tight, nails biting into my arms as if pressure alone can hold me together.
I tell myself I should feel relieved. I walked out. I left him behind in that room, left the sheets tangled with memories I don’t want. That should mean I’ve taken back some control.
My mind won’t quiet.
Each step away from him feels heavier, my resolve fragile as spun glass. The images won’t stop coming: his face caught in candlelight, the rough sound of his voice when he told me I was his, the way my body opened for him despite everything I swore I wouldn’t let happen.
By the time I reach the far end of the hall, I stop and press my back to the wall, sucking in a breath that does nothing to steady me. My pulse still races, my thighs ache with the ghost of his touch, and the heat in my chest refuses to fade.
I whisper it again, one last time, as though repetition will carve it into truth. “It was a mistake.”
The words crumble the second they leave my lips.
I push off the wall, forcing myself onward. The estate stretches long and endless before me, every corridor a reminder that I’m not free, that every choice is bound to him. And no matter how much I try to tell myself otherwise, last night changed something I can’t undo.
I know this isn’t the end of it.
The storm has passed, but the quiet it left behind is more dangerous.
The corridors blur as I move, though my pace is unhurried, measured—every step a performance for invisible eyes. I know someone is watching. There always is in this place. Guards tucked in shadows, cameras feeding to screens I’ll never see,
Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more than them. That his gaze follows me even when he’s not there.
I reach the staircase, fingers brushing the polished banister, cold and smooth under my palm. The house is too quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe but unsettles. My own heartbeat feels louder than my footsteps, echoing against high ceilings and shuttered windows.
At the landing, I pause, catching sight of my reflection in a tall mirror. Hair tangled, skin flushed, lips still swollen from his mouth. I look away quickly, shame burning hot. The proof is everywhere on me, no matter how much I want to deny it.
I press on, winding through hallways that feel endless, each door the same, each shadow too thick. My room waits somewhere ahead, a cage I’ve grown used to, but tonight it feels different. Smaller. Tighter. Like the walls themselves will whisper what I’ve done.
