Page 19 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I don’t answer. I step back, spine rigid, and force my feet to carry me to the car. Sergei already has the engine running. I climb in, slam the door harder than necessary, and keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as we pull away.
The case is gone, but my hands still feel the ghost of its weight.
For several blocks, silence fills the car. My chest tightens with every shadow we pass, every set of eyes that seems to linger too long. Then Sergei mutters, “Car behind us.”
I snap my head up. The rearview mirror shows headlights a little too steady, a little too close. My stomach twists.
“What do we do?” My voice comes out sharper than intended.
“Nothing,” Sergei says. His knuckles whiten further on the wheel. “Stay quiet.”
So I do. My eyes dart between the mirrors, counting seconds between turns, watching the same headlights follow. My pulse races, but I force my body still. I can’t let panic show. If this is another test, I won’t fail it by falling apart.
Block after block, the car trails us. My palms are slick, my breath shallow, but I sit rigid, alert. Every streetlight we pass,every corner we take, I note the rhythm. I imagine escape routes, alleys, doors I could disappear through if it came to that.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the car turns down another street and vanishes into the city.
Sergei exhales, long and shaky. “It’s gone.”
I don’t relax. My body stays wound tight, nerves thrumming like live wires. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” He glances at me briefly. “You did good. Didn’t freak out.”
The words land strange. Praise? From Sergei? I nod once, then stare back out the window, hiding the tremor in my hands by clenching them tight in my lap.
By the time we return to the estate, exhaustion weighs heavy on me, but adrenaline still buzzes under my skin. The car rolls to a stop in the courtyard, rain slick on the stone. I push the door open and step out, the damp air biting cold.
He’s waiting.
Dimitri stands near the entrance, coat draped over his shoulders, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His gaze flicks to me the second I step out, assessing, calculating. I hold myself tall, even though my legs want to fold.
I expect him to say something, to test me again with words. Instead, he simply smirks—barely more than a curve of his mouth—and brushes past me on his way inside.
It should feel dismissive. Maybe it is, but there’s weight in it too. Like he knows exactly what I’ve just been through, and exactly how close I came to shattering.
I stand there for a long moment, the drizzle soaking into my hair, before finally following him in.
Still, as I climb the stairs back to my room, one thought refuses to let me go.
I didn’t flinch, but the way his eyes lingered—the way that smirk cut through me—I know he saw more than I wanted him to.
Worse? A part of me wanted him to.
I close my door behind me and press my back to it, letting the silence of the room swallow me whole. My hands are still trembling, a fine shake I can’t get rid of, no matter how tight I clench them into fists.
The encounter replays in my head on a vicious loop—the contact’s cold eyes, his fingers brushing mine, the way he looked at me like I was prey. Then the tail on the ride home, those headlights glued to us, and the awful certainty that we weren’t going to make it back.
I did. I didn’t panic. I didn’t run. I kept my mouth shut and delivered what Dimitri asked me to.
The case is gone, but it feels like it’s still in my hands, pressing into my skin, branding me with something I can’t shake. I pace the length of the room, fighting the urge to scream, to cry, to let out everything I swallowed in front of Sergei, in front of Dimitri.
I stop at the balcony doors, staring at my own reflection in the glass. My face is pale, my eyes too wide. I whisper it aloud, needing to hear it: “I didn’t break.”
The words echo, fragile but real.
Yet, beneath the relief, another thought coils tighter: he knows. Dimitri saw me tonight, saw the way I held that case, the way I didn’t fold under pressure. He didn’t praise me, but the smirk was enough. He noticed.
I press my forehead to the cold glass, closing my eyes. I should feel proud, but instead I feel exposed, like I’ve given himsomething he can use against me. And deep down, where I don’t want to admit it, a dangerous truth whispers back.
