Page 35 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

Sliding the flower chain onto my wrist, I huddle a little further into my coat and eye Dariya. She pointedly scolds the guard for not following her very exact instructions, which brings a warm smile to my face as my thoughts turn cold.

She isn’t Fyodor’s child. He rescued her out of guilt and has been making it up to her every day for the last six years. He told me because he trusts me, and he likes me. Daniil likes me too; that much is clear yet here I am.

The real snake in the grass.

Honestly, it’s hard to believe that Dariya isn’t his child given how much they look alike. The same golden skin, the same dark hair and hazel eyes. Is his upbringing as a hit man any different from my upbringing as a spy? Sometimes, I wonder if that’s the only reason my mother even had a child.

Speaking of the devil, my phone blares into life and I check it immediately in case it’s someone important. My mother’s ID flashes across the screen with her umpteenth call. My nerves flutter like butterflies in my gut, and I hit ignore.

I can’t talk to her until I’m certain what I’m going to do.

Another bitter breeze blasts past my shins. It’s getting colder and the sun is sinking lower.

“Dariya!” I call softly, rising from the wooden bench and stamping my feet against the cold. “Time to go inside!”

“I’m not finished,” Dariya yells back, the cold held at bay for her due to her rapid running around.

“Well, your friend can finish up, okay? Let’s go inside where it’s warm, wash your hands and we’ll see about dinner.”

Dariya straightens up and turns to me, a challenge in her eyes but just as I prepare for an argument, she relents.

“Don’t break them,” she snaps at her guard, then she stomps up to me and slides her hand into my waiting palm. “You’re wearing it!”

“Of course I am.” Leading her back inside, I twist my wrist slightly so she can see it all. “I’m going to treasure it as long as they stay alive.”

“Wait, they’re going to die?” She gazes up at me with wide, sad eyes.

“Oh honey. Yes, because they’re not attached to the ground anymore. Once you pluck a flower, there’s no going back.”

Her face falls, then her brow pulls together. “Next time I’ll use rocks.”

Laughter floods up at the thought. “Alright, I look forward to my rock bracelet.”

Inside, the warmth is inviting. Ushering Dariya in, I close the door but just as I’m about to take off her coat, someone in the kitchen catches my eye that I don’t recognize. Given everything that’s happened these past few days—hell, these past few weeks—my heart jumps into my throat.

“Hey!” I bark, positioning Dariya behind me. “Who are you? What are you doing?—”

I barely finish before the person turns around and a wave of foolishness washes over me.

Zasha stands before me, looking completely different from when he pinned me to the floor. It hits me—this is the first time I’ve seen him washed, clean, and in dry clothes.

He looks incredible—nothing like the shell of a man from a few nights ago. It seems his new diet and plenty of rest are quickly having effects.

His long, white-blond hair drapes softly across his shoulders like a cotton curtain, reaching just below his shoulder blades. His tan skin is flooded with color, lacking the gray tint from when we first met. Slim dark brows angle sympathetically over a pair of crystal clear stunning blue-green eyes and the dusting of pale stubble across his chin almost looks like glitter. The buttons of his black silk shirt strain against his muscular chest and one sleeve is ripped at the elbow to sit neatly above his cast.

“I’m so sorry,” Zasha says in his deeply silky voice that drips like honey. “Fyodor told me you would be helping me with my recovery and I wanted to come and talk to you about it.”

My mouth snaps closed. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

Holy shit.

“I’m Dariya.” She slips from my grasp and skips forward, holding out one hand for him. “Naomi said you're her friend.”

Zasha drops to his haunches, bringing him more to her level and my eyes catch the way his muscular legs bulge for freedom within his jeans.

“Did she now?” There’s a playful glint in his eye when he looks up at me, then he takes her hand and shakes it. “I’m Zasha.”

“What happened to your arm?” She immediately begins to investigate it, running her fingers over the cast. “Was this when you hurt your head?”

---