Page 23 of Toxic Attraction
Mila sits on her bed in pajamas—white with little stars—dark curls brushed and falling around her shoulders. She watches me enter with those careful eyes.
"Hi," I say softly. "Elena said you like a story before bed?"
She nods once and hands me a book.The Wild Swans.Hans Christian Andersen. The fairy tale about a girl who has to stay silent for years to save her brothers from a curse.
Of course, this is her favorite. Naturally, a child who has learned to be quiet would love this story.
I sit in the chair beside her bed and start reading. My voice is shaky at first, but Mila doesn't seem to mind. She listens with complete focus, small body curled under blankets, eyes tracking the illustrations.
Halfway through the second page, I feel it.
His presence.
I don't look up. Don't stop reading. But I know he's there, standing in the doorway just like this afternoon, watching.
The weight of his attention makes my hands shake worse, turns every word into a struggle. But I keep reading because stopping would be worse, would draw more attention, would—
Mila's eyes flicker to the doorway, then back to me. She doesn't seem surprised. This is normal for her—her father standing guard while she falls asleep, watching for threats even here.
What kind of life is this for a seven-year-old?
I finish the chapter, and Mila's breathing has evened out. Sleep pulling her under.
"Goodnight, Mila," I whisper.
She doesn't answer. Already out.
I stand carefully, setting the book on the nightstand, and move toward the door on legs that barely work. Trying not to look at him. Trying to slip past without acknowledging the man blocking my path.
But he doesn't move.
I stop two feet away, trapped between him and the room, and force myself to meet his eyes.
He's staring at me with that same intensity from earlier. But there's something else underneath now. Something I can't read.
"She likes you." His voice is barely above a whisper, mindful of Mila sleeping.
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
"Don't get comfortable." His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm still deciding if you're a problem I need to eliminate."
Of course, I fucking know.
Then he steps aside, just enough for me to slip past, and I escape into the corridor as fast as I can without running.
But I only make it three steps before his hand wraps around my wrist.
I freeze. Every muscle locking up because the last time someone grabbed me like this was Patrick's men dragging me through my father's blood, and now I'm back in that living room, hearing the shot, seeing Dad's head snap—
The hallway spins. My chest feels too tight, and there's not enough air, and I can't breathe, can't—
"Interesting."
His voice cuts through the panic, clinical and detached. Like he's observing an experiment.
Black spots dance in my vision. My knees are buckling, the world is tilting sideways, and I'm about to pass out right here in his corridor—
He's just holding my wrist. Watching me fall apart like it's entertainment.
