Page 39 of Bratva Baby

SOFIYA

“You’re coming with me, Sofiya, whether you agree or not.”

A laugh tears out of me, harsh and disbelieving, and I swipe at my face with the heel of my hand before I can stop myself. “You kick in my door, read my medical papers, decide my child is now your concern, and you think I’m just going to go with that.”

His eyes stay on mine, dark and steady and much too calm for this situation. “You hid a pregnancy from me,” he says, and there’s a rough edge under the control now. “That did you no favors.”

I stare at him. “I was alone.”

“You were hiding.”

“Same thing.”

His mouth shifts slightly, and I hate how much I want to bite it. “No,” he says. “Alone means abandoned. Hiding means you made a choice.”

I push off the wall and go for my bag. He catches the strap before I can get it over my shoulder, and his knuckles brush the side of my breast in the same movement. Heat flashes low and fast, ugly in its timing and worse in how instantly my body knows him. “Don’t,” I snap.

His gaze flicks to my mouth, then lower, to where the scarf sits at my throat. “You still do that.”

“Do what?”

“Get that look in your eyes when you’re furious and wet at the same time.”

My face burns. “You disgusting bastard.”

His smile turns faint and filthy. “There you are.”

I yank hard on the strap. He just steps in closer until I have to tilt my head back to keep looking at him, and that only makes it worse. I know this man’s hands, know what happens when his voice drops and his mouth gets too close to mine.

I know it too well.

“You don’t get to show up here and decide anything,” I say.

He actually has the gall to look amused. “Wait till I tell you the part where I already decided on the plane.”

I scowl heavily at him. “That sounds like your problem.”

“It became yours when you put my child in play and ran.”

Something in me snaps. “I didn’t put anything in play. Maks did. My family did. You don’t get to walk in after one night and act like you’ve got the moral high ground.”

He lets that sit, but his fingers tighten once on the bag strap. “I’m not claiming the moral high ground,” he says. “I’m claiming the right to stop this from getting worse.”

I laugh again, shorter this time. “You really can’t hear yourself.”

“I hear myself just fine.” His eyes sweep over my face, my coat, the folder on the table, the tremor I’m trying to keep out of my hands. “I also hear the part where you look exhausted, you’re seven weeks pregnant, your cousin is hunting you across borders, and you still think stubbornness is an exit plan.”

My hand flies before I can think better of it, but he catches it again, the bastard. “That’s twice now,” he says, and he’s smiling again.

I struggle in his grasp as he shakes his head slightly. “Hit me again and I’ll put you over my shoulder and carry you out of here while you kick and scream.”

I hate that the image hits hard and humiliatingly hot. I hate him more when I see in his face that he knows exactly what it did.

“You need help,” I say.

He gives a short laugh. “Obviously.”

I bite down on his wrist. It surprises him enough that he pulls his hand back, and I use that split second to go for the gun on the counter. He moves faster, catches me around the waist, and drags me back against him before my fingers close on it.