Page 20 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I wanted him to notice.
Chapter Nine - Annie
There’s no privacy here. I figure that out fast.
At first, I think it’s the guards. They’re everywhere—by the doors, at the gates, stationed in corners like pieces of furniture that happen to breathe. Their eyes are sharp but detached, never lingering too long. After days of this routine, I realize it isn’t just them. Even when I can’t see him, I feel him.
Dimitri.
Whether I’m eating in the marble dining hall, walking the gravel paths in the walled garden, or sorting through paperwork in his upstairs office, his attention is there. Not casual, not distracted. Watchful. Quiet. Coiled.
The weight of his gaze presses into me like a hand between my shoulder blades. It makes the food on my plate taste dull, makes the air feel too heavy to breathe.
He studies me like a puzzle he hasn’t decided whether to keep whole or smash into pieces.
At first, I try to ignore it. I bury myself in routine, moving sharp and brisk. I eat quickly, head down, and leave as soon as I’m done. I hand over files without looking at him. I keep my chin tucked when I pass him in the corridor.
Ignoring it doesn’t make it stop. If anything, it makes the silence heavier. So I change tactics.
I start small.
At breakfast, I let my gaze linger on his a second too long. I tilt my chin when he looks at me, a silent dare. I step closer than I need to when I pass him documents, brushing the space between us like it’s an accident.
Every gesture is a stone tossed into still water, and I watch for the ripples.
The first time, when I let my eyes hold his longer than they should, I swear I see the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth before it vanishes.
The second time, when I tilt my chin up instead of dropping my eyes, his gaze flicks there and back again. A warning, but no words.
The third time, when I lean too close across his desk, laying down papers with my hand brushing the grain of the wood, his hand hovers like he might stop me—or touch me. He doesn’t. I feel the decision in the air, heavy as thunder that never breaks.
It’s dangerous. I know it, but the danger feels alive in a way that’s hard to resist.
One afternoon, I push further.
I’m sent to bring refreshments to the study during a meeting. Dimitri’s speaking with a visiting associate, a man in a gray suit with slicked-back hair and the kind of smile that’s all teeth, no warmth.
I set the tray down on the table between them, arranging the glasses like I actually care about symmetry. The man’s eyes flick over me, lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“You’re new,” he says, his accent softer than Dimitri’s but still sharp at the edges.
“Something like that.” I keep my tone flat.
“What do you do here?” His smile widens. “Besides deliver drinks.”
I meet his gaze. “Whatever I’m told.”
He chuckles, but it falters just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting me to talk back. “That’s dangerous,” he says, lowering his voice. “Not asking questions.”
I let the silence stretch, resisting the urge to glance at Dimitri. “Maybe I like danger,” I reply.
His laugh is louder this time, but brittle. He takes a step closer, hand reaching for one of the glasses, his eyes never leaving mine.
Then the air shifts.
I don’t need to look to know why. From across the room, Dimitri hasn’t moved a muscle, but the silence around him has grown dense, magnetic. The weight of it presses against my spine.
The associate’s smile falters. He straightens, clears his throat, and takes a deliberate step back. “Of course,” he mutters, retreating as if something unseen has brushed too close.
