Page 18 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
She said no.
She was wrong.
She just didn't know the right question.
And now, she's mine. Christmas Eve. This holiday I’ve always hated. It just became my favorite day of the year. Because today, I didn't just get a present.
I claimed my future.
5
Talia
The quiet. It's the first thing I notice. The second is the weight. A heavy arm is draped over my waist, and a solid, muscular leg is tangled with mine. My cheek is pillowed on a chest that is definitely not my own, rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
I'm... safe. The thought is so foreign I almost laugh. I'm in Anton Ismailov's bed, sore in places I didn't know I had, and the first emotion I identify is safety.
The storm is still a muffled howl outside, but in here, there is only the crackle of the fire and the sound of his breathing. My body is... a mess. A wonderful, aching, exhausted mess.
"Anton." My voice is a rough, sleepy whisper.
He stirs instantly, his arm tightening. "I'm here, malen'kaya." He shifts, pulling the heavy duvet up over my shoulder, tucking me in.
I sigh, a long, trembling sound. The reality of it all is... a lot. "I'm... sticky."
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, and I feel it against my cheek. "We are. I'll run a bath soon."
"No." The word is out before I can stop it. I snuggle closer, pressing my cheek against his hard-muscled chest. "Not yet. I like this."
I just admitted that. I just told a man I was terrified of twelve hours ago that I like being held by him. That should scare me, but I'm too tired. Too... sated.
We lie in silence. The firelight dances over us. Glazing the hard planes of his chest, the dusting of dark hair, and bronzing the rich brown of my skin draped over his paler, tattooed arm. We're so different—age, experience, temperament. So, why do I feel uniquely connected to him? Entangled in the best possible way.
"You're quiet," he murmurs, his finger tracing my spine.
"I'm processing. Thinking, this is a nice one, Santa." When he doesn't laugh, I tilt my head back, finding his face in the dim light. "You... you hate Christmas, don't you?"
He's so still, I think he won't answer. Then, his voice, flat. "Da. I do."
"Why." I push, braver now. Fearless in his arms. Unafraid of everything, including him.
Anton's quiet for a long time. "I was thirteen," he says flatly. "It was two days before Christmas. My parents were killed."
My breath hitches. "Oh."
"My father's business." He doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask. The words fill the space, ballooning out and pressing down, while I freeze. I don't dare interrupt a memory he's willing to share. "I was... passed around. An uncle here, a cousin there. They have a word for it. Priemak. The foster child who is not quite family."
My heart... aches. "You were an orphan, too," I whisper.
"Not like you." He shakes his head, his hand tightening on my hip. "I had family. They love me, and I love them. But I didnot... belong. Not really. I was a reminder of a failure, of a debt. At seventeen, I stopped waiting for someone to take care of me. I went into the business. I began to take care of myself. And I have, ever since."
I listen to his story, and the chasm between us—the billionaire boss and the temp—doesn't seem so wide. He's just... like me. But with money. And power. And... family who loved him. I'm quiet for a moment, processing his version of my life. Then, my hand slides up from his chest to his jaw, my thumb brushing the rough stubble.
"No one should be alone," I whisper. It's the truest thing I know. "Not even a bastard like you."
He turns his head, his lips pressing a hot, rough kiss into my palm. "You are not alone tonight, Talia."
"Neither are you."
