Page 4 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

Inside, the scent of old leather mixed with the tart of alcohol greets me. In my next breath, the smell of old books tickles my nose, and underneath all of it is the familiar woody scent I’m so used to detecting whenever Fyodor stands close to me.

His office is empty. No Fyodor in sight.

Fuck.

How is it empty? Never in all the months I’ve worked here has it been empty. Whenever I’ve needed him, he’s been right here, working away as diligently as anyone.

Should I call him? That might be the only way for me to get permission to leave before my mother turns up here and ruins six months of my hard work. Hard work I’ve been doing for her.

My weight shifts back and forth, then tension snaps across my shoulders when I glimpse his computer.

I could do it.

Right now, I could sneak up and access that computer, ending my stint here and giving my mother what she desires.

I could do that right now?—

Just as I take a half step forward, a strong, warm hand weathered with callouses grasps my wrist and spins me around so fast that my breath catches in my throat. My chest seizes, and air remains trapped behind my tongue as I face Fyodor.

My boss.

His warm, woody scent with a hint of vanilla teases at my nose. If I could breathe, I’d breathe him in like an addict. Hazel eyes glint at me, reflecting the warm light from the desk lamp enough that the golden flecks around the outside of his iris sparkle. Dark curly hair frames his face, curling just below his ear. His golden skin, a few shades darker than Daniil’s, carries the wrinkles of age around his eyes and the corner of his full mouth. A soft five o’clock shadow hugs his sharp, angled jaw, and even now, I yearn to know what it would feel like to have that brushing against my skin.

Shadows dance lightly across his face, melting into the floral tattoos that cover his neck like a collar. They bleed down across his shoulders and vanish under the straps of his tank top, the only fabric preventing the leather of his suspenders from imprinting into his skin. Fyodor stands a full head above me and his muscles are so thick that he dwarfs me with just a look—that’s always made my mouth water. Carrying the extra curves that I do, I’ve never doubted that Fyodor could throw me over his shoulder like I was weightless.

“Naomi.”

His voice is so deep that it vibrates through me.

“Care to explain what you think you are doing in here?”

Oh. Right.

In just a few seconds, he distracted me enough that I forgot about my mother and my ability to breathe.

“Um,” I gasp, suddenly conscious of how my breath might brush against his skin with how close we are. “I need to nip out for a bit.”

“Out?” Fyodor’s grip around my wrist tightens, firm but not painful. “Has Dariya eaten?”

Of course, his first thought is his daughter. If I’ve learned anything about Fyodor Dunayevsky it’s that his daughter is the most important thing to him.

“No, but Daniil is dealing with that.”

Fyodor’s grip tightens further, then he releases me and steps away. The rubber band around my chest suddenly releases as if Fyodor’s lack of presence has finally given me permission to breathe. I turn on the spot, following him with my eyes as he returns to his desk.

“You can leave once Dariya has eaten and gone to bed.”

Knowing Dariya, there’s no way I can get her to eat her dinner, shower, get in bed, and then go out to meet my mother. Not in two hours.

“I’m sorry but I can’t. I really have to go.”

His leather chair creaks as it takes on his muscular bulk. Fyodor rests his elbows on the desk, clasps his hands, and stares at me over the top of his knuckles.

“It’s snowing.”

It sounds like concern, but it’s really just another way to say no.

I take a deep breath, and my tongue trembles from how hard my heart thumps against my ribs. “I really must insist. I’ve taken care of Dariya, and I—well, I’ve never asked you for anything, have I? But I have something I really need to take care of—a family thing.”

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