Page 77 of Toxic Attraction
Because if she's not answering, it means they're getting desperate. And desperate people do stupid, violent things.
I close the laptop and pour vodka. Drink it standing at the window overlooking the grounds where my men patrol in careful patterns. This fortress I built to keep threats out, and somehow one walked right through the front door wearing a maid's uniform and big brown eyes.
I need to confront her and finally get to the bottom of what’s happening.
But my mind supplies an image—Valerie's face when that phone buzzed at the club. The way her hand flew to it, then away, like touching it burned. The terror that flashed across her features before she smoothed it away.
She's trapped in something. That much is obvious.
The question is whether I give a shit enough to help or just eliminate the problem entirely.
I drain the vodka, set the glass down harder than necessary.
Tomorrow. I'll confront her tomorrow when I'm thinking clearly instead of with my cock.
Except when I head toward the hallway, I hear it.
Screaming.
Mila's screaming.
No!
I'm moving before conscious thought catches up, instinct and five years of nightmares propelling me down the corridor toward my daughter's room.
The door's open. Valerie's already there, kneeling beside Mila's bed, trying to calm her.
"—not real, sweetheart, you're safe, I promise you're safe—"
But Mila's thrashing, small hands clutching her blanket so tight her knuckles are white, face blotchy with tears and terror. "Mama! Mama, wake up! Please wake up!"
The same nightmare. Always the same fucking nightmare.
Her mother's body on the floor. Blood spreading. Dmitri in his crib. The men with guns. All of it seared into a brain too young to process that kind of trauma.
I move to the bed, and Mila sees me. Reaches for me with desperate hands. "Papa—Papa, I saw them again—"
"I know,Cielo." I lift her, hold her small, shaking body against my chest. "I know. But it was just a dream. Just a bad dream."
"It felt real." Her voice breaks on a sob. "It always feels real."
Valerie's still kneeling beside the bed, and I see wetness on her face. She's crying too, quietly, like my daughter's pain is her own.
I have no idea how to react to that.
"Can you tell us about the dream?" Valerie's voice is gentle, careful. "Sometimes talking about it helps make it smaller."
Mila shakes her head against my chest. "I don't want to. It's too scary."
"That's okay." Valerie reaches out, strokes Mila's hair with tentative fingers. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. But we're both here now. Your papa and me. And we're not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Mila's breathing starts to even out. The shaking subsides into occasional tremors. She's exhausting herself, adrenaline crash pulling her toward sleep despite the fear still lingering.
I sit on the edge of her bed, keep holding her. Valerie settles beside me—close enough I feel her body heat, smell that lavender scent that's become familiar.
