The Enemy’s Baby

Freya

The best word to describe the whole spectacle is awkward. I’ve celebrated a ton of birthdays in my time but my nineteenth is turning out to be the most embarrassing one.

My uncle hasn’t cut any corners. Fairy lights cover the whole park, surrounding our gothic mansion. Alcohol’s overflowing in champagne glasses, strange music that sings about plundering and pillaging plays from the giant speakers.... Exotic animals from the north have been flown in; Nordic lynxes, arctic foxes and even Siberian tigers.

The whole Nordic Mafia is obsessed with exotic creatures from the north but all I feel when looking at the tiger pacing in his cage is sadness. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re locked in a cage. And suddenly I’m struck by an impulse to just let the giant cat out and give him that taste of freedom.

Freedom. Mmm...I bet it tastes delicious.

“There you are,” a male voice grunts and suddenly my head locks in a chokehold. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Happy birthday, fairy.”

Struggling to breathe, I curse inwardly at my uncle. Sometimes he just doesn’t know his own strength. Especially when he’s been drinking and I search for his wife. When she catches my pleading gaze, she lets out a soft laugh and walks over to us.

“Viper, go easy on your niece,” she urges, before grimacing. “You’re ruining her gorgeous hairdo.” She goes on to groom me, making sure I look respectable in front of all the men that could potentially be my husband.

My uncle snorts. “She looks fine,” he growls and I sigh when his knuckles rub my scalp until the skin burns. “Any man will count himself lucky to have her.”

His wife looks up at him in awe, squealing something about him being socuuute. It makes uncle all full of himself, his chest bloating and he throws his wife over the shoulder before running away with her into the dark corners of the park.

My cheeks heat from their antics and I squirm when some of the males raise their glasses at me. Oh hell...I just want this to be over. It’s way over the top and the males looking at me with hunger in their eyes makes me feel like I’m prey about to be eaten.

I know I’m supposed to be flattered that I’m desired by powerful men. I’m not the prettiest woman around. Most of the other women in the mob are a lot more beautiful than me. They’re all walking, talking bombshells while I’m...

Curvy.And that’s the nice word for it. The other word is chunky.

Despite my dress being tailor made, I still feel uncomfortable in it. It’s too tight, sticking to my limbs until all I want to do is rip off my clothes and erupt into a wild dance. Dancing is my life.

Modern dance specifically, the kind where you pour out all your emotions, the kind where you tell stories with your whole body. When I dance, is the only time I feel amazing. The only time when I feel somewhat at home.

I swallow when I catch the group of girls in the corner, whispering behind their hands while looking at me. Most of them are girlfriends of the soldiers and I wince when I notice Julien is among them. She’s the worst. And she doesn’t even bother to hide they’re talking shit about me, pointing at my shoes and then my dress and I can only imagine the things they’re saying.

She looks like a stuffed sausage in that dress.

Those shoes are for hot girls. Fatty will just pop the heel.

Gulping, I reach for a glass of champagne and swipe down in one go. It makes my head spin and when I try walking, I stumble and almost fall nose down onto the grass. The catty girls burst into laughter and I turn red in the face. Unable to withstand it anymore, I run into the house, causing my dress to rip and a split tears all the way up to my mid-thigh.

Struggling to breathe, I climb up the staircase, feeling sick of everything and everyone when I bump into a hard body. It punches the breath out of me and I almost yell out a curse. Strong hands steady me, my eyes darting to great heights until I’m looking into the terrifying face of Rammstein Skinner.

Rammstein joined the mafia a year ago. He works closely with my uncle and is both well-respected and well-trusted. Despite being in his early thirties he doesn’t have a family of his own and doesn’t live at the compound.

He’s mysterious like that.

Out of all the made men, Rammstein is the most...fascinating. His towering height and broad shoulders make me feel tiny and delicate. His tan skin makes him look exotic, and his hair that’s a mix of gold and silver blond is always plaited in intricate braids that go past his shoulder blades.

But it’s the eyes that get most people talking. One eye is amber, the other a milky white due to the three, thin scars slashing it. It’s rumored a made man gave him the scar when he’d been a child.

Right now his eyes fixate on me and I feel like I’m under a microscope. As if everything that I am is on display for him, my body, my face...my heart, everything’s ready for his taking. And my skin heats underneath his strong hands.

“Are you okay?” he rasps and I whimper in response, overly flattered by the sudden concern. His brows knots and I figure I sounded like a strangled cat just now but then he adds, “If anyone gives you any trouble, you tell me and I’ll deal with it.”

Speaking like a true protector. But I’m not his woman. I’m not his to protect.

“How kind of you but I’m perfectly fine,” I squeak, flinching when fireworks explode outside. Rammstein’s eyes narrow as if he doesn’t believe me and I quickly excuse myself. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

“It’s your party,” he murmurs in a strange tone. “What’s to enjoy if you’re not there?”