Page 105 of Anton

Her grin widens, and my fingers flex at my sides. I should punish her for this later, thoroughly and preferably with her on her knees.

“Fine. But don’t get used to it. This is the last time you’ll ever drive me anywhere.”

“Whatever you say, Romeo.”

The instant I pull out the keys, she snatches them from me.

Aleksei’s laughter follows us. “This is the best thing I’ve seen all year. Who knew this Whitlock had it in her?”

Thora looks him dead in the face, completely unimpressed. “I’m full of surprises.”

Then she strides toward the door like she owns the entire bar.

Pizdets.

I follow, because apparently that is what I do now. I follow the cowgirl anywhere she pleases, answering to her command, bending when she points and giving in when she smiles.

Now I know how Volchok feels.

Behind me, Kirill says something in Russian that makes Aleksei laugh harder, and I don’t turn around because if I look at either one of them, I might shoot them.

Outside, Thora heads straight for my car. When I stop near the passenger side and glare at her over the roof, she glares right back.

“Get in.”

“I have never sat in the passenger seat of my own car.”

“There’s a first time for everything. I’m sure you’ll survive.”

I hold her stare, then open the door with one of many curses from today and lower myself into the seat. She slides behind the wheel, shuts the door, and takes us onto the road while driving exactly the speed limit.

“Do not drive like an old woman.”

She keeps her eyes straight ahead. “I would shut up unless you want another bullet.”

My mouth twitches. “I would be honored if you shot me, Thora Whitlock.”

“You’re certifiable.”

“I am a Marinov.”

She rolls her eyes, but drives a little faster. For a while, neither of us says anything, and the silence sits between us with too many things in it. The week she spent ignoring me. The words she should never have overheard. But it doesn’t change how wrong I am for her, and this shooting proves that even more.

She glances over at me before she asks, “How are you actually feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Anton.”

“What?”

“I want you to be real with me. I’m worried.”

I look out the window instead of at her. “Don’t be.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”