Page 79 of The Bratva's Nanny

I gripped the steering wheel and spared her a glimpse. Her gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, her jaw set as her lips went in and out of her mouth in gentle sucks and nibbles.

I was struck by her fierce loyalty and commitment to our mission. It was more than just duty or obligation—it was a deep devotion to Polina.

My heart swelled with admiration or gratitude, or maybe both. No one had ever stood by me as she had through all the darkness and chaos. No one had ever believed in my daughter like she did.

And in that moment, seated between us in that enclosed space, I felt a vulnerability I couldn't ignore.

Our conversation in the hall rushed back, and a pang went through my chest. The same way it had on that day.

“And all of a sudden, you don’t know me?” I’d asked her, offended that she would readily gobble up the words of a complete stranger rather than trust her perception of me.

She’d stared, tried to read me. And her gaze went dark when she declared, with her full chest, “No, I don’t.”

My fingers tightened on the wheel.

I wanted to know if she wanted to see me, really see me—not just the facade I put up, but the scarred person beneath. I wanted to know if she felt the same way I did, if her heart raced with the same longing. Wanted to reach out, to take her hand, to tell her all the things I'd been too concerned to say. But I hesitated, unsure if I was ready to bare my true self, unsure if she'd accept me for who I truly was.

Resigned, I questioned her instead. “You’re not speaking.”

The smallest curve of her lips hinted at a smile before it dropped. “Do you miss the sound of my voice already?”

As a matter of fact, I did. I missed not only the sound of her voice but the soft moans she made in my ears whenever I kissed her.

I couldn’t bear the silence. It left me thinking about all the reasons why she looked immensely sad.

She fidgeted with her fingers. “I’m just thinking about how great of an actor I am.”

I suppressed a chuckle. Leave it to her to make a jest out of a serious situation like the one we’d found ourselves in. “How so?”

She parted her lips, ready to say something, but instantly changed her mind. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I was,” I said.

I clenched my jaw.

I was, but not anymore. Especially not after I’d hurt her. Throughout the drive, I’d refused to look down at her wrist, where red prints of my digits on her glared ever so brightly.

I’d fucking hurt her.

Realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

I cared for her deeply, more than I had ever cared for anyone. The thought sent my heart racing and my mind reeling. I had to tell her, to let her know how I felt.

Shit.

I took a deep breath, secretly dreading an outright rejection. “I need to tell you something, Solnishko.”

That got her attention. Her ears perked up, and she waited like she always did, expectantly.

In my head, I spoke a thousand words, murmured how deeply I felt in a dozen languages. But outside, in the real world, where we sat beside each other in the car, silence reigned.

She looked at me with quizzical brows drawn. “What is it? Is there a problem?”

Oh, there was, alright. A huge problem. Maybe I was going fucking crazy, but my thoughts turned to mush, and my words were reduced to a jumbled mess on my tongue, rendering me incoherent. For the record, I was never fucking incoherent.

But before I could respond, my phone rang, shrill in the silence. I hesitated, then answered it. Lev’s voice was on the other end, his words curt.

“We’re here. We’ve arrived at the house.”