Page 24 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
Close enough to see her lips part without sound. Close enough to catch the warmth of her breath against my jaw. Close enough to forget why I shouldn’t touch her.
My hand twitches, restrained before it betrays me.
For the briefest second, there’s no plan. No power. No cage. Just the sharp, reckless pull of something I shouldn’t want.
I don’t give in.
I step back, forcing space between us before either of us crosses a line that shouldn’t exist.
Her eyes follow me into the shadow. No fear. No plea. Just steady, unflinching, as if she’s looking straight through the wolf and daring him to prove he has teeth.
My jaw tightens as I turn away, each step heavier than it should be.
By the time I disappear into the hall’s darkness, I already know the truth I didn’t want to admit.
I won’t stop thinking about her.
Back in the hall, the silence is heavier than before. My footsteps echo once, twice, then fade, leaving only the sound of my own breathing. I should feel satisfied that I pulled back, that I kept the line intact. Instead, a tightness coils in my chest, restless and unresolved.
Her face lingers in my mind—the way the moonlight caught in her hair, the way her lips parted when I leaned too close. She didn’t cower. She didn’t break. She looked at me like she could see something more than the man everyone else fears.
It unsettles me.
In my world, loyalty is measured in obedience, in silence, in the weight of blood spilled for my name. She throws all of that off balance with a single glance my way.
The idea of her as property burns in a way I can’t define.
I force myself onward, deeper into the estate’s dark. I already know what the night will bring: hours of lying awake, replaying the moment at the window, hearing her breath catch in my ear.
Knowing I’ll want to hear it again.
Chapter Eleven - Annie
The city outside feels muted, like someone’s turned down the volume of the world. Even the estate has gone still, quieter than usual, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. I should be in bed, pretending to sleep, but the silence presses too heavy against me. So I slip down the hall until I find myself in the library.
The fire is what pulls me in, not the shelves of books. Flames lick against the grate, their light spilling across polished wood and leather chairs. I curl into one of them, tucking my legs beneath me, staring at the fire until my mind drifts.
The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that grows louder the longer you listen to it. My thoughts trip over each other, circling the same path until they’ve worn a groove.
The door opens without a sound, but I know it’s him before I look up. Dimitri doesn’t announce himself. He never needs to. He moves to the cabinet, pours amber liquid into a glass, and sits across from me as if he belongs there—as if this is his living room and I’m the guest who’s overstayed. His presence fills the room, the way it always does, shifting the air, making it heavier.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is calm, almost conversational, but not casual. Nothing about him is ever casual.
I shake my head, eyes flicking back to the fire. “Too quiet.”
He sips his drink, ice clinking faintly. “Most people would find that a blessing.”
“Most people don’t live here,” I counter, my voice low but steady.
He doesn’t argue. For a moment, the crackle of wood fills the silence between us. He leans back in his chair, studying me in that unhurried way that makes me feel pinned in place. Then he nods at the shelves. “Do you read?”
“Sometimes.” My lips twitch. “Not Russian mob manuals, if that’s what you’re offering.”
His mouth curves faintly, though his eyes don’t soften. “Art books, then?”
“Maybe. When I have the patience.” I glance at the rows of spines behind him, titles in Russian, in English, in languages I don’t recognize. “Not much patience lately.”
It’s small talk, harmless, but it doesn’t stay that way. The words wander, one after another, as if pulled along by the firelight and the weight of his gaze.
