Page 11 of A Baby for the BRATVA Boss
I push away from the fire and cross to the window. Outside, the snow has settled thick and heavy over the balcony railings and rooftops. Down in the valley, strings of lights drape across the square. Gold and red and green, swaying in the wind.
Christmas.
The word feels foreign in my mouth. I used to hate this time of year. The pretending, the warmth that always felt borrowed. But when I picture her standing in that market, cheeks pink from the cold, red coat framing her like a flame, I think maybe it doesn’t have to mean what it used to.
Maybe she’s the part I was missing all along.
The thought hits low and hard. I grip the windowsill until the wood creaks. My reflection stares back at me: eyes too dark, jaw too tight. This is what obsession looks like when it’s still pretending to be discipline.
“Enough,” I mutter.
I pour another drink in a fresh glass and bring the bottle with me, climbing the stairs before I can change my mind. Thecorridor is dim, the lamps throwing small pools of gold on the floorboards. I stop outside her door.
For a long time, I just stand there, my hand hovering over the panel. I could ask her to open it. I could tell her it won’t happen again. That I’ll be better.
But if I see her face, I’ll lie.
So, I knock once. A soft sound. “Angelu, it’s okay to come out now,” I say, my voice low enough to almost disappear.
No answer. Just silence and the faintest rustle inside.
“I won’t touch you,” I add. “Not unless you ask me to.”
Another lie dressed as mercy. I turn away before I prove it false.
In my bedroom, the walls feel closer than they should. I drop into the armchair in the corner that faces the door, knowing I won’t be able to sleep with her just down the hall.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell her what she needs to hear. I’ll make her believe I can protect her without breaking her. But as I stare into space, one thought cuts through the noise: I didn’t bring her here to keep her safe. I brought her here so she’d never leave.
I pour another drink and stare at it, because I can’t look at my open door. If I do, I’ll see how close I am to hers.
She’s in there now. Probably curled up on the bed, that dark hair falling over her face. I’d brushed against it tonight. It’s so much softer than it looked, smelling faintly of shampoo and something softer.
I take a long breath, the kind that scrapes. My control is a fragile thing tonight. Every time I close my eyes, I see the way her mouth trembled under mine, the heat of her skin, the tiny scar above her top lip that I didn’t notice until I felt it, smooth at first, then the faintest catch beneath my tongue. It shouldn’t have undone me. But it did.
That scar is a story I don’t know yet, and I want to. I want to know how she got it, what hurt her, what made her flinch when I raised my hand to touch her cheek.
I tell myself it’s curiosity. It’s not. It’s hunger.
I force my breath to steady. I catalogue every detail of her like it’s strategy. Dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes with dark flecks, that scar I can’t stop thinking about. And beneath all of it, a kind of defiance that tastes sweeter than submission.
That’s what I want. Not just her body. The fight. The trust she doesn’t know how to give yet. The legacy we’ll make when she finally does.
Sophia
The clock above the mantel ticks too loudly. I placed it there yesterday, small in its simplicity.
I’ve been pacing the same length of carpet for what feels like hours, but it’s only been minutes. Every step matches the rhythm of my pulse, heavy and off-beat. My skin feels too tight, too small for whatever is clawing underneath it.
I press my palms against my ribs as if I can calm what’s moving inside me, but the more I try, the more it spreads. A wild heat of want that I don’t understand. My heartbeat fills my ears, a thick swoosh-swoosh that drowns out everything else. I can’t stop replaying what happened downstairs, his voice, ravaged by arousal.
When he told me to run, I did. He let me go, and somehow that’s what’s haunting me now. That control. That restraint. Then the sound of it breaking outside of my bedroom door.
The room is too warm. The fire in the hearth is only embers now, but it’s enough to turn the air heavy. I open the window an inch and the cold rushes in, biting at my flushed face. It doesn’t help. My skin still burns with knowing what he did.
I cross to the bed, sit, stand again. My legs won’t stay still. Every breath feels thick with him. The scent of his cologne still clings to the sweater I borrowed, and when I pull it to my face, my knees nearly buckle.
He told me to lock the door. He told me not to open it. He told me he couldn’t control himself around me.
