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The other men chuckle. But when they see what cards I’m holding, the laughter stops.
Like I said, the house always wins.
I get maybe four hours of sleep before I’m up for the day. I used to get in a solid eight, but ever since a certain someone moved into my home, four of those hours are now spent counting the reasons why I can’t just drag her into my bedroom and fuck her brains out until my dick is raw.
One: she sent my brother to prison.
Two: sheliedto send my brother to prison.
Three: I have more self-control than that.
Four: I need to prove I have more self-control than that.
Five: My dick likes her a little too much. It doesn’t care about the pain she’s wrought, and that’s a problem.
Six: She has a kid. Don’t wanna scar the kid.
Seven: The thought of her carryingmykid should not make me as hard as it does.
I count those reasons like normal people count sheep jumping a fence to fall asleep. Except, instead of drifting off mid-flock, I find myself believing each one less and less.
Especially that last one.
Fuck.
I’m on my third cup of coffee when I realize what time it is—and I don’t even have to glance at the clock to know. It’s the camera feeds on my laptop, showing Clara and Willow’s sudden absence from their usual spots, that informs me it’s probably close to lunchtime. Noon-ish, give or take.
And I’ve ticked off literally nothing on my To Do list.
Giving them distance was supposed to make this all easier. I pried myself away from Clara after realizing just how much my presence might actually be making things worse for her and for her kid.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m not a good guy, but I’m not a fucking monster. And I’ll be damned if I ever remotely resemble either of the sick bastards haunting Clara’s past.
But it’s impossible to stay away from Willow. The kid’s got a magnet embedded somewhere in that toothy grin of hers. Either that or fucking witchcraft. It’s the only logical explanation as tohow and why I, Demyen Zakrevsky,pakhanof the powerful and deadly Zakrevsky Bratva, found myself asking a toy store clerk which clothing sets go with theirTwinsies Foreverdolls. And did they sell the hair accessories, too, or was that online-only?
I questioned my sanity as I walked out of the store, the boxed doll tucked under one arm and a bag of clothes draped over the other.
I wondered why I couldn’t just send Bambi to do this shit while I took care of literally anything else.
And yet I immediately forgot every ounce of doubt the moment Willow squealed with joy and hugged me, asked me to help her open the box, and immediately introduced me to her new as-yet-unnamed friend.
The warm feeling I get in my chest whenever that kid smiles at me is just my pride. Pride in knowingI’mthe one to make her smile like that. Pride in silently reminding her that I’ll always protect her from the demons in the dark.
I give myself a little shake to pull out of yet another daydream. My fuckingLord, I’ve never spaced out this easily. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I didn’t eat breakfast, so I force myself to close my laptop—which is easier to do when I remember I can still access the feeds on my phone if I need to.
I might have a major fucking problem.
It’s hot as hell the second I step out into the open walkways that connect the different buildings into one large villa. At the time, it seemed like a great idea to have this place designed for desert living, keeping everything open as much as possible to allow breezes to naturally flow through the compound. It’s energy-efficient, aesthetically pleasing, and continues the senseof ethereal magic that makes The Meridian so memorable to guests and clients alike.
That’s what the architect told me. I didn’t really fucking care about the why, just that it got done as quickly as possible.
But I should have added outdoor A/C units to the paths, additional costs be damned. It’s less than a minute of a walk from my office to the kitchen, and my shirt is already sticking to my chest.
The second I open the door to the outer foyer, I feel the air cool and I pop the top buttons of my shirt. When I yank the refrigerator door open, cold air washes over me. I stand there and sigh gratefully.
It’s the giggling that pulls my head out of the ice box.
Clara is standing over Willow at the kitchen island, her eyes glued to me with surprise while the kid grins and gives me a little wave. She’s holding a crayon in that same hand, apparently mid-coloring session while her mother works on cleaning the kitchen.
