Page 98 of Sexting my Bratva Daddies

Leo’s arm settled across my waist.

Viktor’s steady breathing fluttered my hair on my left, and Misha’s heart beat under my cheek.

We lay tangled in a mess of arms and legs, and if not for Luka, I’d stay right here the rest of the night.

But I couldn’t leave Luka to wake up in an empty room in a strange home.

The thought warmed me even as concern settled. Luka, our son, was sleeping in my old bed, in the place that had meant so much to me.

I’d lain awake in my bed at home night after night, listening to Luka first through baby monitors and then with the motherly instinct that had me rising from the bed before his feet hit the floor because I felt him wake and need me.

Viktor stirred and pulled me closer without waking, his arm tightening around my waist from behind. His breaths evened out against my shoulder.

I doodled circles on Misha’s chest and stared into Leo’s eyes.

He stared back, a tiny smile curving his lips as he traced one finger up and down my forearm.

I pressed my lips together in the darkness and blinked back the sting of tears. I’d cried enough.

No doubt my eyes were red and puffy, and there was no reason to be crying except I was so happy, it spilled out of my eyes.

Misha cradled the back of my head and made a whispered shushing sound, knowing without looking at me that my emotions were taking over. “It’s okay, Peyton. We’re here. It’s all going to be okay.”

I’d needed to hear that so many times through the years. How many times had we lain in bed like this, the others falling asleep while Misha and I stared into the quiet?

Too many to count. He was always the last one asleep, a guard always on duty until the rest of us slipped under.

I tilted my face up. “You should sleep.”

“I will.” He grinned at me in the low light. “We will all sleep well tonight.”

For the first time in years. He didn’t have to say that part for me to understand it. He’d said no more apologies, and coming from anyone else, his words might be taken as a passive-aggressive attack.

That wasn’t Misha.

My stoic, brave Mafia man had been broken. I’d broken him. Luka had broken him. I hoped that tonight began the healing process for all of us.

Leo stirred when I shifted my weight. Easing into a sitting position with my hand on Misha’s chest, I kissed him on the underside of the jaw. “I should get back to Luka.”

Leo sat up with me. “I’ll walk with you.”

“You don’t have to.” It came out automatically. My independent streak had grown since I left them. I shook my head. “But I don’t mind the company.”

I ran my hands along Misha’s chest, noting the changes in his body, in all of them.

They’d always been buff, but I hadn’t been joking when I commented that Misha must have been working out.

They were lean to the point of unhealthy, muscles standing out in stark relief and skin stretched taut. Like they’d not been eating.

A lump formed in my throat at the thought that I’d done this to them.

“No apologies.” Misha ran his hand through my hair and down my back until he hit Viktor’s arm.

Viktor grunted and sat up. “Misha’s right. You did what you thought was necessary.”

“And it cost you.” I ran my hand up the hard planes of Misha’s stomach.

“It cost all of us.” Leo stood and shrugged into his shirt, then pulled on a pair of pants. “All we can do now is move forward. No blame.”