Page 57 of Ruthless Addiction

But I swallowed all of it.

“Because she looks like someone I lost,” I said instead. “And because I think she needs protecting. Both of you.”

Vanya’s expression cooled, sharpening in a way that mirrored my own when I was about to slit a throat.

“My mom doesn’t need anyone,” he said, chin lifting. “She’s the strongest person in the world. She can beat up guards twice her size.”

A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. “I believe it.”

He narrowed his eyes, assessing whether that was mockery. When he decided it wasn’t, he slid off the chair and padded closer. He stopped right in front of me, tiny and unflinching, the top of his head just above my ribs.

Then he raised his hand, palm up.

Not a handshake.

Not for him.

A vow.

“If you hurt her,” he said softly—quiet like a storm gathering strength—“I’ll make you sorry. I’m little now. But I’m going to be big one day. And I don’t forget anything.”

Something inside me cracked—not painfully, but with the aching tenderness of remembering what a heartbeat felt like.

I stared at that small, serious hand.

Slowly—carefully, reverently—I took it.

“Deal,” I said, voice rough.

He nodded once, satisfied, and turned.

At the doorway he paused, glancing back over his shoulder like a tiny, ancient king issuing orders.

“Oh, and Mr. Dmitri?”

“Yes?” I murmured.

“The fish in my room are cool,” he said matter-of-factly, “but Mom’s scared of the dark. She pretends she’s not, but she is. There’s a night-light shaped like a moon in the bottom drawer of the white dresser. Can you put it on her side of the curtain tonight? She’ll never ask for it.”

I blinked.

The boy had no idea what those words did to me—how they scraped open old wounds and memories I’d spent years burying.

I hesitated too long, and he seemed to sense it, because his small voice hardened in that blunt, fearless way only a child could manage.

“And you won’t be forcing her to be your wife.”

Something inside me snapped—not loudly, not violently.

Just... cleanly.

“But I’m not giving your mom a choice,” I said quietly.

“She either marries me and becomes my wife... or she receives the tag of mistress by default. She lives in my house. Sleeps under my roof. In this world, that alone brands her.”

I let the words settle like ash.

“It’s her choice. Wife—respected, protected, with rights society can’t ignore. Or mistress—powerless, insulted, whispered about. One path gives her a crown. The other chains her.”