Page 36 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
When I finally step inside, I shut the door harder than I mean to. The sound ricochets in the silence, and I lean against it, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.
Sleep won’t come easily—not with the storm still raging inside me, louder than thunder. I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, knees hugged to my chest, and let the truth settle in my bones.
I can run from him down hallways, deny him with words, lie to my reflection all I want.
It doesn’t matter. He’s under my skin now.
Chapter Sixteen - Dimitri
The study hums with low voices, the steady rhythm of Russian slipping between the walls like smoke. My men bend over the table, fingers tapping on ledgers, coded phrases threaded through every exchange. The air smells of paper, ink, and vodka still sharp in one glass left too close to the edge.
I don’t need to listen closely; I know the patterns, the numbers, the way each man’s tone tightens when talk edges toward risk. What catches my attention isn’t them. It’s her.
Annie lingers at the sideboard, back straight, hair slipping forward as she fusses with files that don’t need sorting.
To anyone else, she looks indifferent, idle. To me, it’s obvious—her head tilts each time a voice drops, her shoulders still when the talk shifts darker. She’s listening. She’s been doing it for weeks, pretending to busy herself, eyes sharp beneath that mask of detachment.
Curiosity like hers is a liability. In my world, curiosity gets people killed.
When I watch her, I don’t feel the usual calculation that comes with deciding whether to cut loose a problem before it grows. I feel something else—a pull to keep her where I can see her, to feed her pieces of the fire until she learns it burns at my command. Not trust. Never trust. Control. A leash she won’t even feel tightening.
I let the men finish their sentence, then cut across them. “Enough.”
The room falls quiet. Eyes flick toward me, then lower again. I don’t need to raise my voice; the finality in it is enough. They gather papers, push chairs back, and file out without hesitation. The door closes, sealing the silence behind them.
Annie looks up, startled by the abrupt shift. Her hand stills on the folder she’s been shuffling pointlessly.
I hold her gaze. Calm. Deliberate. “You’re coming with me later.”
Confusion flickers in her eyes, quickly smoothed over with defiance. “Where?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I let the silence stretch, watch her fight the urge to press again, and savor the flicker of unease when she realizes I won’t give her the satisfaction of explanation.
The leash tightens another notch.
***
Rain lashes the windows, each strike a drumbeat against the black glass. The city outside is a smear of neon and shadow, traffic lights stretching into fractured streaks. The car hums steady beneath us, leather seats absorbing every shift of weight.
The driver keeps his eyes on the road. The guard beside him scans the mirrors, hand close to the weapon holstered beneath his coat. Their silence is professional, practiced. The only other sound is the storm, hammering harder with each mile we put between us and the estate.
Annie sits beside me, posture straight, chin angled toward the window. Her reflection stares back at her from the glass—eyes too bright, jaw tight. She wants me to think she’s calm, but every flicker of expression betrays her.
I let my gaze linger, taking in the small tells: the way her throat shifts when she swallows, the faint tremor when she exhales too sharply, the stiffness in her shoulders. I enjoy her discomfort, the way she works so hard to bury it. It means she knows she’s not in control.
Minutes pass before she speaks, her voice quieter than the rain. “Where are we going?”
I don’t look away from her. “You’ll see.”
The words are enough. She doesn’t ask again. She knows refusal isn’t an option.
Her reflection betrays her more than her body does. I catch the twitch of her knee, bouncing once before she clamps it still. Her hands flatten against her thighs, palms pressing hard, like she’s anchoring herself in place. She doesn’t realize I notice.
I see everything.
She thinks silence is safety, that if she holds her tongue and keeps her body rigid, I’ll dismiss her as passive, but her body speaks louder than her mouth ever could. Every twitch, every breath, every muscle she forces into stillness tells me what I already know: she’s terrified and fascinated at once.
The car rocks slightly as we take a corner, the rhythm of rain shifting. Annie leans a fraction closer to the window, eyes locked on the blur outside. As if the city lights might give her an answer I won’t.
