Page 44 of The Bratva's Nanny

“What’s the question?” I asked instead.

She picked at her fingernails, musing on whether or not to ask. However, her curiosity got the better of her. “How old are you?”

My brows furrowed, and I wondered aloud, “That’s the question?”

“Is it unusual to get asked your age?”

I might have responded with something snarky, but she appeared genuinely curious, like a child seeking knowledge. Her innocence was yet another side of her I was slowly starting to enjoy.

“Thirty-nine.”

“Oh,” she said after a meaningful pause.

She was twenty-one. I’d done the math. Technically, a young woman like Maria Simmons should not have any business with a man like myself. She should have been out there, living her life and falling in love with a twenty-something-year-old dickwad, who didn’t have the next fifteen years of his life planned out.

Like I would ever let that happen.

I inquired, “Does it change anything?”

She released a sigh that resonated with her deepest thoughts.

We both knew it didn’t change anything. We both knew, in that short time, that we liked our bodies too much to consider having it any other way. But she strove to strike the balance, contended to draw the line between right and wrong.

I didn’t bother stopping her. She could sustain her attempts but would have a hard time proposing something other than a craving for her body. Her mind wandered—I saw it in the way she zoned in and out of the conversation. It wasn’t my style, but I offered some reassurance.

“Age is but a number, is it not?”

“Only when the sex is good,” she responded off-handedly and smiled. It was cheeky and bright enough to light up the room.

The sight was so bedazzling that I almost wore a smile of my own.

That was until an abrupt knock came on the door, startling Maria.

“Daddy?” It was Polly. And she sounded a little on the verge of tears. “Daddy, I can’t find Maria anywhere.”

She sniffled, and that did it for Maria’s confidence.

“Shit!”

The cheeky smile faded off her face, and she burrowed deep into the comforter, hiding her beautiful body from the sight of all creation.

Here was a woman who simply offered everything—simplicity, passion, assertiveness—and yet was not ashamed to bring out her inner child, even if the source of her current embarrassment was a child.

It was amusing to behold and almost fun to watch.

I kicked my leg off the bed, and her eyes went wide as I strode over toward the door. She might have as well screamed, “No! Don’t open the door,” with how large her eyes were bulging, and I might have as well laughed because I didn’t give a fuck and I didn’t take orders from anyone.

But this time, it bothered me. I did give a fuck.

I wanted to pull that door open, but an insane urge to keep her protected consumed me. It ran deep, beyond how my blood hummed when she was near or how my cock twitched at the sight of her perfect tits.

This was nothing physical.

I frowned, ignored her frantic gestures, and said, “I know I asked you to drop Polly off at school using your car. As I already told you, it was a strategy to keep sniffing noses and prying eyes unsuspecting. But from today, I’ll have one of my men take you both and bring you back.”

If my sudden switch surprised her, she didn’t so much as blink.

“Okay.”