Page 68 of Unbroken

“Yeah, honey, I can stay today. I’m not sure what Papa has planned, but…”

“She’ll be here soon though,” he says.

“She’s mean. She says mean things about Papa.”

I sit up straighter, narrowing my eyes at him. “What do you mean, she says mean things about Papa?”

“Who does?” Vadka’s voice cuts in from the hallway. And when he walks into the room, god help me, my ovaries combust.

He’s freshly showered, his dark hair still damp and slicked back. His skin is flushed from the heat, and he looks like he just stepped out of some sultry, forbidden dream. He’s in a charcoal-gray button-down, open at the collar—no tie, just confidence. His slacks are a shade darker, perfectly tailored, hugging every muscle like they were sewn onto him. He’s devastating. And standing next to his son, with that intense gaze fixed on me, he looks even more dangerous, even more magnetic.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is feel.

He moves toward me, braces his hands on either side of my chair, and kisses my cheek—slow, intentional, soft. It’s not just affection. It’s a message. A declaration. He doesn’t regret a single damn thing we did last night.

I smile, my eyes flicking to his.

Neither do I.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel free.

Even if my hair’s a wreck, my clothes rumpled, thighs still sticky from the night before. It all feels deliciously dirty—wrong in a way that makes my breath catch. The powerdynamic, the imbalance, it makes me pause. It makes me wonder what comes next.

“Good boy, Luka,” Vadka says, ruffling his son’s hair. “Your mama would be proud of you for drinking your milk.”

My chest tightens. I remember when Luka was two or three, how Mariah used to beam every time he finished a cup. That ache is always there. But it softens in moments like this.

A car pulls up outside. Vadka glances toward the window, then back at me.

“It’s the nanny,” I tell him.

“Oh. Right,” he says, his tone a little too heavy. Did he forget?

“You going into the office?” I ask.

“No,” he says, jaw tensing. “I’m not. Rafail wanted me to go to London—there’s something urgent over there—but I’m not leaving you and Luka. Not with the Irish still out there. I don’t trust they won’t show up again.”

I nod. “Makes sense.” Then I realize what I look like—bedhead, yesterday’s clothes, last night’s sin still clinging to my skin. I’m not presentable to meet this nanny. Especially not if she’s the judgmental, old-school type.

I mutter, “I look like a mess.”

His eyes spark, and he kisses my forehead. “You’re beautiful.”

I walk toward the room like I’m floating. I’m still grieving, still wrecked by guilt—but part of me feels seen. Desired. Ineed to talk to someone. Someone older. Someone who won’t crumble under the weight of it.

I wash up as best I can and throw on my clothes.

Then I hear the nanny’s voice. Sharp. Cold. She’s snapping at Luka, and I pull in a breath. This is not going to last.

I walk into the kitchen just as she barks, “Put your plate in the sink.” She’s dressed head to toe in black, arms crossed like a judge ready to deliver a sentence.

“It does no good to coddle him,” she says, stiff. “I’ve taught children his age for forty-five years. The sooner they learn independence, the sooner they stop relying on you.”

Vadka winks behind her back. “Yes. I think you’re right. That’s exactly what independence means.”

She continues, unfazed. “I understand young mothers these days like to baby their children. And I know your wife is no longer here, but she didn’t do your son any favors by cleaning up after him.” She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she still wiped his bottom.”

A muscle jumps in Vadka’s jaw. My fists clench at my sides.