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Ironic? But I have to admit it feels weirdly nice.
If I can just break through... if I can convince him that I'm not the enemy... I would align myself with his cause in a heartbeat. I fucking hate my father. I hate The Thieves. And I'll do whatever I can to take them down.
But talk is cheap, and actions speak louder than words. So, for now, I give him this. I let him take care of me. I let him think I trust him, even though no rational person with half a brain would.
Whatever.
Nothing in my life has been normal or predictable.
After I'm securely buckled in, he slams the lock on the door three times as if he doesn't trust it's actually locked the first time, then jogs around to the driver's side. Removing the handgun from his waistband, he tosses it on the seat beside him.
I frown at the gun. Does he not think I could grab it and use it against him to orchestrate my escape?
Leaning across from me, he opens the glove compartment. Normal people have things like paperwork in their glove compartments. Not him. I spy two more guns and boxes of what looks like ammunition. Yeah, that doesn't bother me at all. I'm sitting next to the executioner for the Bratva, with a weapon beside us and enough guns and ammo to take down a small army.
For one brief moment, I abandon the idea of escaping. It doesn't make sense. It's completely illogical. But I feel safer with him than I ever did under my father's protection.
"Got any food tucked in there beside your armory?" I mutter, uncomfortable with my train of thought.
"You and the food," he mutters, but he doesn't seem angry with me. Well, that's a refreshing change.
"Food is life," I respond. "I'd eat just about anything right now."
He gives me a sidelong glance and his lips quirk up. "Anything? Do you mean that literally?”
Oh, God. They're all the same. Fully grown men, college students, assassins. Give them an in for a dirty comment, and they leap right on it.
"Hmph. Ok almost anything." I turn it back on him. "What about you? Would you eat almost anything?"
His large, strong hand comes to my leg, every finger tattooed and masculine and dotted in fine dark hair. He grips my upper thigh, teasing the delicate skin between my legs with the tip of his finger. He isn't flirting but reminding me he doesn't need my permission. And hell, it's fucking hot, the jerk. I squirm uncomfortably as my sex clenches.
He runs one finger along my inner thigh. I should push him away, but I can't help the vision that assaults my senses. Me, on my back, my legs spread over his muscled shoulders while he...
Oh God. I'm not immune to the power of seduction, apparently. He's brought me pleasure and pain, and my body remembers both.
Hell, what he does to me. It's dangerous as hell.
"What do you like to eat?" he asks, sobering. Thank God, a normal turn of conversation.
"I'm not picky," I tell him.
"Name something."
I think about the Russian breakfast food I enjoy. "I like fried eggs with kolbasa, syrinki, eggs, porridge..." My stomach growls. "Hell, anything."
"Sounds good," he says, touching a button on his dash. A phone rings, and I recognize Demyan's voice on the car's speakers.
"Get us food, brother?" Maksym asks. "I don't want to stop, but I can do a quick drop-off."
"Consider it done."
They decide a drop-off location and disconnect, and he continues to drive in silence. My belly flips when he hits the highway and the engine accelerates. He weaves in and out of traffic, and I feel like we're practically on a racetrack.
"Um, do you always drive this fast?" I ask him. "If you're trying not to attract the attention of the authorities..."
"Fuck the authorities," he says. He doesn't care about police or anything. Apparently, he answers to a higher authority.
"You just flaunt the fact that you break the law?" I ask.
"I thought you were familiar with the workings of the Bratva."
"Au contraire," I reply. "I was kept mostly ignorant of the workings of the Bratva."
Mostly.
He nods, contemplatively. "We don't blatantly break the laws," he responds. "But we bend them when necessary. I've got a monitor on the location of the police, and none are nearby." He shrugs. "And half of them are on our payroll anyway."
That should scare me. But what would the police do for me even if I ran to them? If half of them are on his payroll...
"And the other half are on my father's?" I ask.
A corner of his lips turns up. "Good girl," he says approvingly. "You're a fast learner." I look away. I don't want him to see that it pleases me when I earn his approval. He's still an asshole, and I hate that it does.
