Page 38 of Ruthless Daddies

“Dmitri!” Nikolai roars, and I throw my hands up in exasperation, stepping back as they face off. “Don’t be disrespectful to her.”

“It’s not my fault your mind is always in the gutter,” Dmitri shoots back.

The ridiculousness of it all would almost be funny—if it weren’t so utterly infuriating.

“Stop it, both of you,” I say, trying to sound more authoritative than I feel. “This isn’t helping.”

They both look at me, their gazes burning, but it’s Nikolai who speaks first. “You don’t know him like I do,” he says, his voice clipped. “He’s not?—”

“Not what?” Dmitri interrupts, stepping closer. “Say it, Nikolai. I dare you.”

I can see the fire building between them, the tension ready to snap, and I panic. “Enough!” I shout, my voice louder than I intended. “This isn’t about who’s right or wrong. It’s about getting home. And guess what? I’m here. Safe. So maybe stop acting like children for five seconds.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Dmitri’s lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a laugh, and Nikolai’s jaw tightens even further, the frustration rolling off him in waves.

“Fine,” Nikolai mutters, his voice low. “But this isn’t over.”

Dmitri grins again, stepping back toward the stairs. “It never is.” He shoots me a quick wink. “Goodnight, Parker.”

As he disappears up the stairs, I turn back to Nikolai, my chest tight with a mix of anger and confusion. “You didn’t have to go after him like that,” I say quietly.

“He’s reckless,” Nikolai says, his voice soft but firm. “And you don’t see it because you don’t know him.”

“Maybe,” I say, meeting his gaze. “But that doesn’t mean you get to treat me like I don’t have a say in my own life.”

For a moment, Nikolai looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Go to bed, Alice. It’s late.”

He turns and walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing there. Where’s this hot and cold behavior coming from? They aren’t jealous now, are they?

The playroom isquiet except for the soft rustle of toys being moved around and the occasional creak of the old rocking chair in the corner. Luka sits by the window, his small back hunched, fiddling with a toy car but not really playing with it. Mila is perched on the couch, hugging a stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest, her big eyes watching me like she’s waiting for something I’m not sure I can give.

The park incident has left a mark, and I hate that I can’t do anything about it.

Luka’s little fingers grip the toy car tightly as he stares out the window. I sigh, my chest aching for him. I can’t even imagine how terrifying it must have been, how helpless he must have felt.

“It’s okay to be scared,” I say, my voice soothing. “What happened at the park—it was really scary. But you’re safe now. I promise.”

Luka’s lips press into a thin line, his shoulders stiff as he keeps his gaze firmly on the glass. I want to reach him, to pull him out of whatever dark place he’s retreated to, but I don’t know how.

“Alice?” Mila’s small voice breaks the silence, drawing my attention.

I turn to her, and my heart twists at the worry etched into her face. She’s holding the rabbit so tightly now that its ears are bent at odd angles.

“Yes, Mila?” I ask gently, moving to sit beside her on the couch.

“Are people going to hurt us?” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Like they hurt Mom?”

The question hits me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I glance at Luka, but he doesn’t react, his little hands still gripping the toy car like it’s his anchor.

“Why do you say that, sweetie?” I ask.

Mila hesitates, her small fingers brushing over the rabbit’s fur. “Because…because there was a man,” she says finally, her words halting, as if she’s piecing the memory together. “He used to follow Mom. I saw him. All the time.”

My stomach tightens. “A man?” I repeat, my heart racing. “What kind of man?”

She shrugs, her little shoulders rising and falling. “I don’t know. He was just there. Sometimes when we went to the park, or when she picked us up from school. I told her, but she said not to worry. He was kind of scary and he would raise his voice at her sometimes.”

I swallow hard, trying to process her words. Mila was only four when Elena died. Could her memory really be that clear? Or is this just the lingering fear from everything that’s happened?

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