Page 12 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

Retreating from Dariya’s room, I head to the kitchen. The dragging sensation of the pills lingers in my throat, so I head straight for the kettle. Making tea is more of a distraction than a desire for a hot drink, but I’ll take it.

With only one light on, sharp shadows dance across the kitchen walls and counters, cloaking me like a blanket. There’s a pristine white world just beyond the bay window as snow blankets the garden, muffling the sounds of everything. Only the strong winds mixing with a distant roll of thunder give any hint to the world beyond these walls.

A world where I didn’t hit Zasha and I made it to my mother’s meeting.

Fuck.

In all the commotion, I forgot about the reason I even looked at my phone. How am I going to explain all this? Will I have to speak to the police? That thought occurs to me as the kettle bubbles and boils. Fyodor will likely keep the police away but to maintain my cover, it makes sense for me to ask for them. I’ll need to remember to do that the next time I see Fyodor or Daniil.

Suddenly, warmth bleeds across my back and the air around me grows close with a heated presence. Gasping, I spin on the spot and press back against the counter. I come face-to-face with Fyodor. He stands so close that my rushed gasps for air press my chest against his solid torso. Even in the low light, his eyes gleam with a honeyed warmth and heat rolls off him in smothering waves.

Just like that, my mind is silent.

“You should be resting.” His voice is deep and low, scratching slightly from the late hour. He holds my gaze, unblinking and I swallow hard.

“I’m fine.” My answer trembles even as I straighten and tighten my jaw. “I needed tea.”

Fyodor’s eyes dart up to my hairline, where a neat row of stitches throbs lightly in time to my heartbeat. His dark brows pull south for a fraction of a second then his gaze returns to me and I momentarily forget to breathe.

Now is not the time to dwell on how insanely attractive Fyodor is, or how an ache grows in my arms fueled by the desire to sink against Fyodor’s broad chest and soak in his warmth like it’s mine to have.

“That man,” I say, forcing my mind back on track. “Shouldn’t we be taking him to a hospital? He looked like he needed one.”

The subtle gentleness in Fyodor’s face vanishes and he snaps his tongue lightly behind his teeth. “There wouldn’t have been time,” he replies, his voice rumbling in the narrow gap between us. “He is getting the treatment he needs here and he will be fine. But, if things take a turn then…possibly.”

“You’re going to help him, right?” There’s no way he can’t. Mafia laws or not, they surely can’t just let him die. “Ester, she told me that he had other injuries that weren’t from me. You’re going to help him, right? It’s the decent thing to do and I—I don’t want to be responsible…”

“You are responsible,” Fyodor says and his words jar me.

He speaks the truth I know, but it’s still strange to hear my own thoughts spoken aloud by my boss.

“But what happened was an accident. Anything beyond that has nothing to do with you.” Fyodor’s tongue darts out slightly, grazing over his lower lip. “If you were so desperate to get him to a hospital, why didn’t you call the police instead of me?”

A glint to my left draws my attention. Fyodor holds up my phone. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I’d lost it in the snow. I don’t even remember putting it down.

“Or,” Fyodor rumbles softly. “Why did you call them, then change your mind?”

Shit.

He remains standing so close that we’re sharing the same air, and keeping my jumbled thoughts in order is immensely difficult. I can’t tell him the truth. If he found out that I made that decision based on my Bratva knowledge and the consequences of having the cops sniffing around, then it would open a whole can of worms I couldn’t deal with.

My lie hangs by a thread, waiting for my sluggish thoughts to catch up.

“I was scared,” I admit, and the truth within the lie makes things much easier. “I-I thought…I thought I’d killed him. That I’d killed that man while driving a car that didn’t belong to me. And I took my eyes off the road for a split second, a split second and he just—” Tears start at the corner of my eyes as the thump plays in my ears once more. “So I…I know you’re a private man, and I didn’t want you to get into trouble, and since you say you work as a fixer for important people, I-I thought that you would help me. Fix this. I didn’t want to face the cops because then it would be real and I would be a—I can’t afford to go to prison.”

Fyodor’s eyes slowly dart back and forth between mine. He’s studying me; I can feel it. With one look, he’s peering into my soul, and I have no idea what he’s looking for. The real emotion in my voice is the only hope I have of him buying the lie, and it’s easy to pretend I was desperate and panicked because that part is the truth.

My phone tilts down in his hand, and it’s not until the corner of his mouth twitches that I realize he’s handing it to me.

“Your mother has been calling non-stop.”

Does this mean he believes me?

He swallows and the floral tattoos around his throat ripple like a real wind is ruffling through their petals. Then Fyodor leans closer. His large, broad hand cups my cheek and his dry, soft lips press against my forehead in the briefest of kisses.

My heart skips a beat and everything around me freezes. Even the distant tick of the wall clock slows down while Fyodor’s lips linger against my skin.

This isn’t real.

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