When we lock eyes, I spy the flutter of her pulse in her throat. A blush creeps across her cheeks, and she licks her lips before dropping her gaze, her eyes flitting anywhere but me.
She wants me.
The realization ignites a primal urge.
I want to taste her throat as she swallows. Press my lips to that pulse and feel her thundering heart.
My hands itch to close around her neck.
Her life—so easy to take—between my fingers.
Controlled. Owned.
She’s practically humming with desire, and I harden at the thought of that energy, that innocence, pliable beneath my grip. I imagine her on her knees, lips parted, waiting for my command.
How simple it would be.
She’d let me do anything if I pushed the right buttons. She’s the type who would flourish with praise and just the right amount of discipline. The way her innocence would shatter, crumble into oblivion…
“Which child is yours again?”
Her simple question yanks me from my lust-fueled daydream, and her eyes shine with expectation as she awaits an answer.
A foreign wave of panic crashes over me. I’ve spun countless lies to seasoned criminals, crafted elaborate covers under threats of violence, and yet this sweet, beautiful, naive kindergarten teacher has managed to disarm me.
I need a child’s name. Shit, I should’ve had one on hand since last night.Think…
“Roman.”
I immediately curse myself for giving up the name of my Pakhan. If he ever finds out, I’m a dead man.
Or worse, a laughingstock.
The teacher’s otherworldly cheer has scattered my brain.
“Roman?” Her forehead creases, then her face lights up. “Oh, you must mean Manny. He’s such a creative soul. Always drawing during story time, but I don’t mind. Some kids process information better when their hands are busy.”
“I’m divorced.” I steer the conversation toward an uncomplicated explanation. One that hopefully prevents her from expecting to see me with a kid in tow. “I have him on weekends.”
She nods, her expression flickering with…interest? Relief?
“That must be hard, sharing time with him.” Her hand brushes my arm again in a soft, comforting touch that lingers a moment longer than necessary. “But I’m sure you’re a wonderful father.”
I stifle a snort at the laughable idea that I’m capable of nurturing another human being. Her words create a hollow sensation in my chest, as if she’s identified an absence I didn’t even realize existed.
The warmth she exudes seeps into my skin, igniting my nerves and reminding me that a person resides beneath the Bratva monster.
Ridiculous.
I need a distraction. “I’d like to think I’m a wonderful daddy.”
Daddy, she mouths, blushing redder than the beets behind her. Perfect.
My blood heats.
She waves toward the displays ahead. “Come on, I’ll show you where the best zucchini is.”
“Zucchini. Great.”
