Chapter 2 Babysitter From Hell

NICO

The worst part about riding in a car with Sasha is not the silence.

It's the fact that he makes the silence feel like a knife, scraping my skin and baring my soul. The guy is not even moving. And I already feel uncomfortable in my own skin.

I close the video on my phone. Half because I'm bored and half because I've been waiting for him to crack and the subtle tightening of his jaw tells me he's getting close.

"That was... disturbing," he mutters, eyes on the road.

I smirk. "What? A little vintage leather and chains offend your delicate sensibilities?"

He doesn't bite, not exactly-just lets his gaze flick to mine in the rearview for a fraction of a second. Enough to make my pulse quicken and my grin widen. The man could gut me with a glance... or do something considerably more enjoyable. And I don't know why that excites me more than it terrifies me.

"Try something less... grotesque next time," he says, voice as flat as a blade.

"So you do look forward to next time", I say with a grin on my face. I can't help it. He says nothing in return. As expected.

I stretch, letting my foot brush the side of his seat. "You're cute when you pretend you're not into it."

His only reply is a sharp exhale through his nose. His version of flipping me off I guess.

By the time we turn into the driveway, I've already decided I'm going to get a rise out of him before the night's over.

The place is... well. Exactly what I expected from him, if I'm being honest.

The house sits back from the road like it's hiding something, which it probably is. Black stone walls, tall and unyielding. Big sheets of glass for windows, reflecting the forest instead of revealing anything inside. The trees crowd around it, thick enough to muffle sound, thick enough to bury bodies.

Sheesh!!

When we step inside, the air is cooler. It's spotless, like a magazine, if the magazine catered to men who own unregistered firearms. Not a single thing is out of place. Every line is clean, every surface polished until it could blind you.

I'm actually offended by it.

There's no welcome mat. No couch blanket. No photographs. It's a space meant to be occupied, not lived in.

And yet... it feels familiar. Like walking into the mind of the man himself. Controlled and weaponised. My fingers itch to touch things, to mess them up, to see how far I can push before he snaps.

I've never wanted to get a rise out of someone as much as I do now.

There's a faint trace of smoke in the air, mixing with his cologne-the same sharp, restrained scent that clings to him when he leans over me.

I toss my jacket over the back of a chair just to see his reaction. "You know, for a babysitter, you're not very warm and fuzzy."

"I'm not your babysitter."

"Bodyguard. Handler. Prison warden. Call it whatever helps you sleep better at night."

He doesn't even flinch. Which is infuriating. So I continue doing it.

I, Domenico Vescari, hereby pledge to make Sasha snap by the end of today.

-----

Dinner is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you want to throw a glass just to hear it shatter. Or, just me.

Sasha eats like the food owes him money. Making clean and efficient cuts, every movement controlled. He doesn't talk, doesn't even look at me. It's almost enough to make me wonder if I'm invisible.

Almost.

Round one: I bump my knee under the table, light enough to pass for accidental. He doesn't react.

Fine. Round two. My foot slides along the side of his ankle, slow and deliberate.

Nothing, except maybe the tiniest pause in the way he chews.

I lean in to reach for the salt, letting my elbow knock into his arm. My hand, instead of grabbing the shaker right away, rests just a little too far under the table, fingers grazing the inside of his thigh.

There. The twitch. Just a flicker of muscle under my fingertips.

"Well, hello," I say softly, just for me.

He keeps eating like nothing happened, but his fork hits the plate a little harder than necessary.

I withdraw my hand, only to "accidentally" drop my napkin. I duck down to retrieve it, letting my shoulder brush against his leg on the way back up.

When I sit back, I let my leg shift under the table until my knee accidentally bumps right into his crotch. Not hard. Just enough.

That's the one. His breath catches, so slight most people wouldn't notice. But I do.

I don't move my leg right away. I let it linger.

Finally, I lean back with a smirk, like nothing happened, and meet his eyes across the table. "Sorry," I lie.

He doesn't answer, but the muscle in his jaw ticks. Nico 1, Sasha 0

The rest of the meal, I toy with him. Letting my knee press against his for a beat too long, tilting my chair so my boot knocks his under the table, dragging my gaze over him like I'm undressing him one stitch at a time.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't crack. But the air between us feels heavier now, thicker, like we've both noticed the line in the sand and I've already stepped over it.

Finally, he sets his fork down with precision so sharp it's almost violent. Pushes his chair back.

The wall is cold against my back before I can blink.

Waoh, he's fast

His forearm presses across my chest, not enough to crush me but enough to let me know that he could if he wanted to.

"Watch yourself," he growls, low and sharp.

I grin like I've just hit a jackpot. "Touchy, touchy."

He doesn't move. His face is close enough that I can feel his breath. Warm and steady, but not calm. Oh no, definitely not calm.

I tilt my head, slowly and deliberately dragging my tongue over the curve of his ear. He flinches, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it.

"You were assigned to protect me," I slur. Oh the things I could do to him.

His grip tightens. "That's..."

"...a lie," I cut in. "They just wanted you close enough to finish the job when the time's right."

His eyes are steel. Mine is a dare.

"You're not as clever as you think," he says.

"Maybe not," I whisper, smiling against his jaw, "but I'm a hell of a lot harder to kill than you think."

For a moment, we're locked there-heat and ice, both of us waiting to see who moves first.

Then he shoves off me like I've burned him, boots thudding against the floor as he storms down the hall without looking back.

I stay where I am, shoulder still against the wall, smile curling at my mouth.

Game on.