Page 56 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

This is ridiculous. What is there to be nervous about? She should be happy. I should be, too. Finally, I can focus on taking care of myself. On my vengeance against Zotov and the Albanians. On my return to the city.

Traveling will be much easier without Arya and Lukas tagging along. No more stopping for nursing sessions and diaper changes. No more dealing with her sass and her evasive bullshit.

So then why do I feel so damn conflicted?

Why is my chest a knot of roiling tension?

“You’re here!” Brigitte beat us to the house. She comes down the steps, arms thrown wide. She walks right past me and hugs Arya. “God, I’m so glad you’re safe. And where’s the little man?”

She turns around and barely hides a grimace when she sees me holding the car seat. “Sorry, but you can’t come in. My brother doesn’t want any trouble. Just drop their stuff on the curb and leave.”

I’m about to ask Brigitte who the fuck she thinks she’s talking to, but Arya steps between us just in time with a hand on my chest. “I’ll meet you upstairs, Bridge, okay? I want to talk to Dima.”

Brigitte reaches for the car seat as she passes. I slap her hand away. “Don’t touch my fucking son,” I snarl.

Her eyes narrow, but then Arya nods for Brigitte to go on. The blonde bimbo lifts her hands in surrender, clearly annoyed. But she leaves us alone.

Arya turns to me when she’s gone. “I know what you’re thinking,” she says before I can say anything. “But she’s not a bad person. She’s just protective. And she doesn’t trust you.”

“The feeling is very fucking mutual.”

Arya lays a hand on my arm again. It’s oddly calming. A cool touch to battle back the fire that constantly rages inside me.

“I’ll be okay here,” she tells me. “We both will be. Brigitte won’t let anything happen to me. Or, I mean, to Lukas.”

We both seem to notice the way she corrected herself. She knows where my priorities lie.

She’s my son’s mother. That’sallshe is to me.

Nothing more. Nothing that matters.

Arya laughs nervously. “Not to say you care about what happens to me. But you know what I mean.”

I nod and grunt. “I do.”

She frowns. “You do what? Care about me, or know what I mean?”

Fucking hell. More mind games.I want her to just go inside already. Leave me to do what I do best. But she’s lingering and looking up at me with those emerald eyes. Searching. Imploring.

I don’t know what she wants. But I do know I’m the wrong damn person to give it to her.

What could I possibly say?I do care?That would be a lie. I don’t give a fuck about anything but my Bratva.

Arya looks down at her feet, her toe nudging a pebble across the pavement. She’s in the sweats and oversized sweatshirt I bought for her at the store, but she’s still stunning. Without any makeup on, I can see the pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. And the fading bruises across her cheekbones from her interrogation at Fyodor’s hands mere hours after giving birth.

That sight still makes the anger in my stomach curdle. But the swell of her breasts, the jut of her hips—those things make my cock stiffen against my better instincts.

It’s not just that, either. There’s something more to her. The woman standing before me, as fragile as she may appear, is fierce. Fiery.

In the end, that’s why it doesn’t matter that I’m walking away.

She doesn’t need me to keep an eye on her.

She’ll be just fine.

“I should get going,” she says, taking a step away from me and hitching a thumb over her shoulder towards the house.

“You should probably take your son with you.” I hold up the car seat in my hand.

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