Page 29 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I lean closer, letting my weight shift toward her, testing. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
“Then why did you bring me?” The words snap out, sharp as glass. She ties the makeshift bandage tighter, wincing when I grunt. “Don’t tell me it was an accident. You wanted me here. You—” Her voice breaks, then steadies. “You could’ve left me behind.”
I don’t answer right away. Her hands knot the fabric, stained red, her fingers smeared with my blood. My gaze never leaves her face.
She finally exhales, a shaky laugh without humor. “You risked yourself for me.”
“I protect what’s mine,” I say evenly.
Her hands still for just a second, then resume. “I’m not yours.”
The words hang between us, heavy, electric. My blood stains her skin, her clothes. Her eyes flash up to mine again, unflinching, daring.
“You’re alive because I decided you would be,” I tell her, voice low, controlled. “That’s all that matters.”
Her jaw tightens. “Maybe, but you’re still bleeding because of it.”
Silence stretches. The fire in her eyes doesn’t dim.
Finally, she finishes tying the fabric, her hands shaking harder now that the worst of it is done. She leans back, but not far, still too close, her breath brushing my throat.
I should push her away. Remind her what this is, what I am.
I see something I hadn’t before—not just defiance, not just fear. Determination. She refused to move until she helped me. She refused to let me dismiss her.
I know, with absolute certainty, that she’s crossed a line she can’t step back from.
Chapter Thirteen - Annie
The estate doors slam behind us, heavy bolts locking in place, but the echoes of gunfire cling to me like smoke. My ears still ring, my chest still tight, like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over.
Dimitri strides inside as if nothing happened, his coat torn at the sleeve, blood seeping dark across his arm. His men scatter on command, voices low, crisp Russian threading through the marble hall. They’re efficient—some to the gates, some upstairs, two already murmuring into radios.
I’m the only one who looks like she doesn’t belong here. My hands still shake. My throat tastes of ash.
Dimitri tries to walk straight past me, his jaw set, shoulders squared like he’s already forgotten the bullets that sliced him open.
“Stop.” The word rips out before I can second-guess it. I plant myself in front of him, arms crossed, pulse racing. “You’re bleeding everywhere. Sit down before you collapse.”
He halts, eyes narrowing. The smirk that ghosts his mouth is sharp, almost cruel. “I’ve survived worse. You think a scratch will stop me?”
“Worse doesn’t make this less dangerous,” I snap. My knees feel weak, but I stand taller. “Sit.”
For a moment, I think he’ll shove past me. Then, to my shock, he lets me steer him toward the nearest chair. I push at his good shoulder with more force than I mean to, and he sits—not because I’ve overpowered him, but because he’s curious. His eyes track every twitch of mine, steady, unreadable.
“Finally,” I mutter, turning to the cabinet by the wall. My fingers fumble over drawers until I find a battered first-aid box. Ipull it free, shaking my head. “You’d think a place like this would keep it easier to find.”
The absurdity of the task—rummaging through supplies after crouching under gunfire—nearly makes me laugh. Instead, I swallow it down, the sound catching in my throat.
When I turn back, kit in hand, Dimitri is watching me like he’s dissecting me. His expression doesn’t shift, but I catch it, the faintest twitch of his mouth, a smirk not quite hidden.
I drop to my knees beside him, the box opening with a metallic snap. The position feels wrong: me on the floor, him looming above. The act of tending him twists it back—I’m the one with the tools, the one pressing close. He could push me away in an instant. He doesn’t.
The air between us hums with something I don’t want to name, my hands already trembling as I reach for his torn sleeve.
The scissors rattle in my hand as I tug them from the kit. My fingers are clumsier than usual, but I steady them enough to slip the blades under the torn fabric of his sleeve and the strips of my coat I used earlier.
Dimitri doesn’t move. He just watches, eyes hooded, as I cut upward through the cloth. The sound is rough, too loud in the quiet hall, and when the fabric parts, I suck in a sharp breath.
