Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Roman
I yanked my tie loose, irritated, and threw back the last of my bourbon in one savage gulp.
The burn seared down my throat, all the way to my gut, but it couldn't touch the rage and frustration churning in my chest.
How long had it been?
I couldn't even remember the last time someone had the balls to bring up Irina to my face.
Everyone in this house knew it was a death zone. Even Nick—the brother who'd taken bullets for me—swallowed those words before they left his mouth, carefully skirting around that name.
Yeah, I'll admit it.
That goddamn circus might be ancient history, but I still couldn't talk about Irina.
The second I thought about that woman, I stopped being myself.
I slammed the glass down on the coffee table and collapsed back into the couch.
The alcohol finally started working, dulling the heat pounding in my skull.
I closed my eyes, planning to pass out right there on the couch.
But the instant my eyes shut, Leah's face crashed into my head without warning.
The way she'd looked in the living room just now.
One second like a kid waiting for praise, the next—that joy freezing solid. Those bright hazel eyes flooding with shock and hurt.
That look made something twist in my chest.
"Damn it." I cursed under my breath.
What the hell was I upset about?
She'd crossed a line. She overstepped, trying to pry into things she had no business knowing.
I just taught her a lesson, put her in her place. I had no reason to feel guilty about snapping at her.
No reason at all.
I convinced myself of that and rolled over, trying to get comfortable.
But then—a faint rustling sound from the hallway around the corner.
My nerves went taut.
At this hour, no maid or guard should be wandering the first-floor living area.
Instinct sent my hand inside my jacket, fingers finding the grip of my gun.
But just as I was about to draw and aim at the intruder, I finally saw who it was.
A tiny figure in pink bunny pajamas shuffled out from the hallway shadows.
Barefoot on the carpet, dragging a cat toy behind her.
Mira.
My shoulders sagged. I shoved the half-drawn gun back into its holster.
"Mira? What are you doing down here so late? Where's Emily?"
I rubbed my throbbing temples and forced my voice softer.
Mira stood there in silence for so long I thought she wouldn't answer. Then she mumbled something.
"Looking... looking for Marshmallow. He got scared today. He didn't come back to sleep."
I looked at the toy clutched in her hand and realized this was a serious problem. In this godforsaken house, that cat named Marshmallow was practically her only source of comfort.
I tried to make my voice less harsh, patient.
"Listen, I'll have security find Marshmallow right now. As long as you go to bed."
Mira hesitated, then nodded obediently.
But she didn't bolt like usual. She just stood there, watching me with those big eyes.
"Daddy, is Leah... okay?"
I stared at her, stunned.
This kid hadn't actively cared about anyone in forever. Since Irina left, she'd locked herself away, shut out the whole world—including me.
But these past few days, she'd been different.
"Leah's fine." I swallowed the strange feeling and answered gently. "She's resting in her room."
"But..." Mira's little mouth trembled. "But she got hurt. There was so much blood..."
My brain went blank.
Blood? Hurt?
Leah had told me everything when she saw me today—how she climbed the oak tree, how she got that damn cat down. She'd gone on and on, so excited, so detailed.
She'd been practically dancing, celebrating her victory of finally getting Mira to hug her. But she hadn't said one word about getting hurt.
"Damn it..." I ground my teeth and cursed again.
My chest felt tight, followed by a wave of thick guilt.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward to straighten Mira's pajama collar.
"Leah's fine too. She'll come play with you tomorrow. Now, you need to go to bed."
I pressed the call button by the couch and summoned the night maid.
The maid hurried over anxiously and took Mira's hand to lead her away.
But then Mira stopped and looked back at me.
"Daddy," Mira's usually blank face showed the faintest smile. "Good night."
I sat frozen on the couch, wondering if the alcohol was making me hallucinate.
Mira only spoke when she absolutely had to, forcing out a few words.
She'd never talked this much in one night, and she'd never... never said good night to her blood-stained father.
"Good night, Mira." It took me several seconds to respond.
I watched the maid lead Mira into the shadows at the staircase, unable to snap out of it.
That good night, from Mira with her severe trauma, was a goddamn miracle.
She hadn't just opened up enough to care about Leah—she'd even cracked open her heart to me, the father who'd failed her so many times.
In that moment, I realized I wasn't the only one trying, the only one exhausted.
Leah was trying too.
She wasn't just fulfilling that goddamn contract. She was using her patience and unconditional love to knock on Mira's closed-off world, one gentle tap at a time, truly changing my daughter.
And me? I was acting like an immature asshole.
Just because she'd said something harmless that poked at my pathetic ego.
So I'd yelled at her, then left her alone in that room—hurt—and stormed out.
I knew better than anyone that Leah hadn't meant anything by mentioning Irina. She didn't even know what Irina looked like.
She just felt bad that Mira didn't have a mother.
I didn't know how to face Leah.
I, Roman Volkov, was actually afraid to face a woman.
This was ridiculous. I'd stared down gun barrels without flinching, but I couldn't open my own bedroom door.
This feeling of helplessness was foreign to me.
I wanted to make it up to her.
Problem was, I had no idea how. In my world, owing someone meant settling it with money, power, or favors.
Maybe... give her a raise?
With that tangled mess in my head, I climbed the spiral stairs to the second floor.
The heavy wooden door to the master bedroom was shut tight. I stood outside, bracing myself.
Whatever waited behind that door—whether it was Leah crying under the covers or Leah grabbing a lamp to throw at my head—either way, I'd take it.
I pushed the door open and stepped in quietly, only to find things hadn't gone either way I'd imagined.
No tears, no cursing. Leah was sound asleep.
I walked toward the massive bed that dominated the room.
Right down the middle of the bed was a ridiculous barricade of five or six down pillows. Leah had used this elementary school tactic to express her anger.
She'd left herself the pitiful, window-side sliver—less than a third of the bed—clearly planning to draw a line between us.
That was the theory, anyway.
In reality, Leah had not only crossed that laughable border—she was sprawled out, hogging most of the damn bed.
One leg was flung dramatically over the pillows, crushing the barrier. Her silk nightgown had ridden up to her thighs, exposing a wide stretch of pale skin.
Her sleeping position could only be described as wild. There was even a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth.
This unguarded, limbs-everywhere chaos practically had "sleeps like the dead" tattooed on her forehead.
I stood by the bed, staring at this absurd, ridiculous scene, and almost wanted to laugh.
The suffocating guilt and self-loathing that had tortured me for hours—it all just... evaporated the second I saw her sleeping like she didn't have a care in the world.
"You're something else," I muttered, shaking my head.
While Leah was dead to the world, I reached out and carefully lifted the fabric on her leg.
There it was.
On her inner thigh, just above her knee, a clean bandage wrapped around the injury.
My fingers brushed the edge of the gauze without thinking.
Leah let out a muffled sound in her sleep, her brow furrowing, her leg pulling back slightly.
I froze and withdrew my hand, smoothing her nightgown back down.
Fine. Maybe I should give Leah a year-end bonus too.
I unbuttoned my shirt absently and slipped under my side of the covers, lying down.
I'd planned to make it through the night without incident.
But I'd seriously underestimated Leah's destructive power while asleep.
The second I lay down, the disaster next to me sensed the heat source.
Leah made a discontented sound and kicked the offending pillow away, then climbed on top of me with zero hesitation.
Like a koala hunting for eucalyptus, she latched onto my waist, burying her face against my chest and nuzzling contentedly.
And that wasn't even the worst part.
Her injured but restless leg tangled over me, her knee landing precisely on that dangerous area.
I glared down at her, half-convinced this woman was faking it just to torture me.
But she just lay there with her eyes closed, breathing evenly, looking completely innocent.
"Roman," she mumbled in her sleep. "Jerk... asshole..."
I've always had decent self-awareness. I'm not someone who loses control over sex.
Before this, my self-control had been solid. But ever since this woman entered my life, I'd been fighting my own body every damn day.
And tonight, I lost again. I could feel myself hardening immediately.
I clenched my jaw and grabbed her ankle, trying to pry her off me.
"Leah, move your leg," I growled. "Now."
But sleeping Leah ignored my warning completely. Not only did she refuse to let go—she made an annoyed sound and threw her arm around my neck, pressing even tighter against me, burying herself completely in my arms.
Reason left the building.
"You asked for this."
I stared at Leah's defenseless sleeping face and repeated it through gritted teeth.
"You asked for this!"
I didn't hesitate. I rolled over and crushed my mouth against her parted lips.