Page 58 of Unbroken

Oh no. Here it comes.

“It’s my bed,” I say firmly, stepping in. “And if your papa says you can’t jump, then you can’t jump. Even if he said yes,I’dstill say no. That’s not what beds are for.”

He launches into a mini tantrum, limbs flailing, noises dramatic and relentless. Vadka scoops him up again, holding him close, his jaw tight and eyes clouded. I see it—the razor’s edge of his restraint. I remember Mariah telling me how she’d sit with Luka during moments like this, helping Vadka soften the sharp edges and unlearn the violence passed down like a curse.

He’s come so far. People love to villainize men who lose control, even for a second, but I understand the pressure. Parenting is brutal. Constant. Unrelenting. And sometimes it feels like your very sanity is splintering.

“You alright?” I ask gently, remembering what Mariah said about standing beside him in these moments.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quietly.

I know better.

We’ll talk about it later. We need to. I think it might help both of us.

“I’ve had a lot of practice by now,” he says eventually, his voice low. “And honestly? It’s unrealistic to expect kids to control their emotions when the adults raising them can’teven control their own.” He smirks. “I’m not bothered by a little ball of unrestrained emotional energy.”

Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind.

He settles Luka on his knee, meeting his gaze evenly. “But listen. If you don’t behave, we’re not going to that restaurant. We’ll go home. You’ll eat, and then it’s straight to bed.Noanimal cups. No shows. No dessert.”

Oof. He’s playing hardball.

“But I?—”

“Luka.” Vadka interrupts, his tone unrelenting. “You heard me.”

Luka pouts, but he nods. The tantrum dissolves, and the storm passes.

And me? I’m just standing there, watching the man I might be falling for turn into the kind of father his son can rely on.

And I think it’s kind of absurd—no, itisabsurd—that some parents expect their kids to have this airtight control over their emotions when they can’t even regulate their own for five damn minutes. Like, really? You're throwing tantrums in traffic, but your kid’s not allowed to cry about being told "no"? Come on. Meanwhile, I’m over here like, I can schedule my emotions. Compartmentalize like a pro. Lock them up, put them in a box, label it with a smile, and keep moving.

Vadka continues in that deep, composed voice of his, “But if you don’t behave yourself at that restaurant, you know what happens.”

He gives Luka a look—one of those silent, steady ones that cuts right through any argument before it’s even formed—and Luka doesn’t say a word. Not one. Just nods with a little pout.

Vadka doesn’t trust the moratorium on Luka’s fit. Something tells me this comes from personal experience.

And I can’t explain it—god, I wish I could—but seeing a man in control like that? That balance of stern and soft, of authority laced with love? It melts me. Completely. It unravels something inside me that I didn’t even know was tightly wound.

Maybe it’s because I never had that. Maybe it’s because that was the kind of love I craved as a kid—unshakable, certain, strong. I didn’t have so much as a father figure or mother who was actively involved in my life. I was either flying solo or under Mariah’s care until Vadka came around.

It’s why I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t meant to be a mother. I’m not wired for it. I’m not soft in the ways children need, and I don’t want to do more harm than good. I’ve always believed I wouldn’t make a suitable mom.

“I disagree,” Mariah once told me. “You already know how to love unconditionally, and that’s the important part. Maybe the most important.”

I wanted to believe her. I did. But I’m not sure she was right.

I watch Vadka take little Luka to the bathroom before we go, and I take a minute to breathe deeply and think.

Lately, I’ve been keeping my distance from Vadka. Things were starting to feel… too familiar. Too comfortable. Too flirty. And that’s not safe. Not for him. Not for me. That night in the safe house—if he had touched me,reallytouched me, not a chaste hug or brotherly kiss on the cheek—would I have stopped him?

Would I have wanted to?

No. Dammit, I wouldn’t have.

Every time I’m near him, it’s like my skin’s on fire. My heart kicks up, and this strange, almost teenage version of me takes over—cool, flirty, reckless. I’ve never looked at him this way before. Not until recently. But the cruel truth is this: He’s not married anymore. And how do you not fall in love with someone who so effortlessly loves the people you care about most?