Page 71 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

“You don’t hear that? A baby crying?”

“No.”

I frown. “I think Theo needs me.”

“Theo’s fine.”

“How do you know?” I ask impatiently.

He doesn’t seem turned off by my tone. Instead, he reaches out and picks up his phone from the bedside table next to him. “Because if there was a problem, Leona would have told me.”

“And has she?”

He glances at his phone and starts reading out loud for my benefit. “1:25 A.M.: I changed his diaper and gave him a bottle. Little tyke hates sleep. 5:47 A.M.: Woke up again demanding more milk. I made eight ounces, but he only drank five. Tiny bastard. 6:53 A.M.: If I never change another diaper in my life, it’ll still be too soon. I’m going to look fifty by the time I’m forty at this rate. You’re not paying me enough.”

I can’t help smiling. “Those are… colorful reports.”

“She should have been a poet.”

He delivers the line with such seriousness that I actually burst out laughing. A second later, he cracks a smile. He doesn’t exactly look comfortable doing it, but he does look beautiful.

“They’ll both be sleeping now. She texts me the moment they wake up every morning.”

I’m surprised at the extent of the tabs he’s keeping on both Leona and Theo. But I can’t deny it puts me more at ease.

Somewhat.

“Why are you keeping me from him?” I ask boldly.

I know I’m risking the fragile truce we’ve called. I also know that it can break at any moment. But I have to take the chance.

Phoenix doesn’t really respond, apart from sitting up more against the headboard. He looks relaxed, but I can see the tension rippling in his broad shoulders.

“I was trying to make a point,” he rumbles.

I sigh. “You were trying to show me that you were in control. That you had all the power and I had none.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“He’s my son, Phoenix,” I whisper. “The most important thing in the world to me. He was the thing that kept me going on my worst days, in my darkest moments.”

He nods, but doesn’t offer up his thoughts. Despite the intimacy of our current placement, I can feel the distance seeping back in between us. His automatic reaction: retreat behind anger, behind coldness, behind the stone wall of indifference. And I’m desperate not to let that happen. Not again. Not anymore.

I reach out and put my hand on his chest. His eyes flit to mine.

“I know I haven’t given you many reasons to trust me,” I say. “I know that finding out about Anna was a shock. I don’t blame you for being cautious. But I’m not lying to you, Phoenix.”

He watches me carefully. Waiting. Listening.

So I continue. “My memory is patchy. It’s a form of self-preservation, I think. I’m terrified of what I can’t remember, so terrified that it just won’t come to me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to remember. If I helped those… thosemotherfuckersin any way… it wasn’t with my knowledge or my consent. You have to believe me.”

The corner of his mouth turns up in the tiniest smirk when he hears me curse. But his eyes are as steely as ever.

I need him to understand. And more than anything, I want him to believe me.

“I do believe you,” he says finally.

As much as I’d hoped, I’m not prepared for that response. “You… you do?” I gape at him, unsure if I’ve misheard. It feels like so much of our relationship has been built on mistrust.

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