Page 31 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
I don’t just fear him. I challenge him. Maybe that makes me dangerous. Compelling. Worth watching.
Upstairs, I close myself in my room, lock the door, and collapse onto the bed. My chest is still tight, breath uneven. I press my wrist against my lips, remembering the feel of his fingers there, the weight of his gaze holding me still. I tell myselfI don’t care—that it meant nothing, that I only wanted to stop him from bleeding out.
I know better.
The night drags on, a storm outside gnawing at the windows. Neither of us sleeps.
I’m haunted by the silence that said more than words ever could.
The hours crawl. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the blankets tangled around my legs, heart thudding as if the gunfire never stopped.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hand circling my wrist again—solid, unyielding, more intimate than it had any right to be. The memory burns hotter than the echo of bullets.
I turn onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow. “It didn’t mean anything,” I whisper into the dark, but the words fall flat. My pulse knows better.
Somewhere across the estate, he’s awake too. I picture him in his study, jacket discarded, the wound dark against fresh bandages. He’ll brush off the pain like it’s nothing, but I know he’s replaying the moment the same way I am—the way I refused to move, the way he didn’t let go until he chose to.
The house is silent, but it feels alive, thrumming with tension neither of us can escape. I clutch the blanket tighter and squeeze my eyes shut, knowing that when morning comes, everything will look the same, but nothing will be.
Chapter Fourteen - Dimitri
The storm owns the night.
It slams against the windows hard enough to make the glass shiver, thunder rolling across the hills like artillery. The old estate breathes with it—wood groaning, shutters rattling, the kind of noise that puts men on edge even when they know the walls will hold. I walk the corridors anyway, slow, deliberate, every step a reminder to my men that order doesn’t crack just because the sky does.
When the power dies, it’s as if the house itself exhales. The hum of electricity cuts, leaving only the rain. For a moment, the silence feels alive, pressing into the space between each heartbeat. My eyes adjust quickly. I know these halls in shadow, but even I pause when I see her.
Annie.
She shouldn’t be here. Not wandering the dark like prey daring the predator to notice. Her outline flickers faint at the end of the corridor, a shift of pale dress against deeper black. She moves like someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts but half expects to meet one anyway.
My body answers before my mind does. I reach.
My hand catches her wrist. She startles, a sharp inhale breaking the hush, her pulse jumping beneath my fingers. The skin is warm, delicate, the beat fast. I step closer, pulling her into my shadow, steadying her in the dark.
“Careful,” I murmur. My voice is low, close to her ear, pitched so the storm almost swallows it.
Her breath hitches again. She tilts her chin, stubborn even with fear trembling through her. “I’m fine.”
Another flash of lightning rips the hall open, bleaching her face in silver light. Her eyes meet mine, wide but steady, pupils blown wide from the dark. We’re too close. The storm outside rages, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos clawing through me.
The corridor feels smaller, the silence unbearable. I don’t let her go.
I lead her without a word, our footsteps muffled on thick carpet, until we reach my room. The door shuts with a sound that seals the world out, leaving us with the storm. A single candle burns on the table, throwing shadows up the walls, painting her face in gold and black. She looks untamed in that light—hair falling wild, lips parted, breath uneven.
I should put distance between us. Remind her where she stands. Instead, I step into the fire she carries.
The air between us hums with charge, like the storm has crawled inside these walls and set us alight. Neither of us looks away. I hold her wrist still, my thumb tracing the fragile line of her pulse, and she doesn’t pull back.
I can smell her—soap and something softer, threaded with the faintest trace of fear. It drives me harder than perfume ever could. Fear and defiance, tangled together. She looks at me like she knows I’ll break her, and like she wants to see how.
The urge hits sharp. Not careful. Not controlled.
I kiss her.
My mouth claims hers with the same precision I use to pull a trigger. Urgency. Hunger. No patience for hesitation. Her gasp spills against my lips, sharp and sweet, before she answers with a heat that shocks me more than the lightning ever could.
Her hands clutch at my shirt, twisting the fabric, dragging me closer as though she can’t decide whether to fight me or holdme. I don’t give her the chance to choose. My grip slides to her waist, hauling her flush against me, the candle’s flame flaring with the draft of our movement.
