Page 40 of Bratva Baby

My back hits his chest. His arm bands tightly under my ribs. The other hand lands over my wrist. He holds me easily, like he already knew this exact fight was coming and planned for it.

“Let me go.”

“Not until we’re downstairs.”

I twist hard, drive my heel down toward his foot, and he shifts just enough to take it without losing control. My hair catches at the collar of his coat when I jerk my head back, and then his mouth is right there near my ear, warm enough to make my breath snag.

“You can fight me all the way to the car,” he murmurs. “It won’t change the car.”

“God, I can’t stand you.”

His hand spreads flatter over my stomach for half a second before he seems to realize he did it. The contact is through layers, brief and accidental, and it still knocks something loose inside me.

He feels it—I know he does. His whole body stills around mine.

Then he lets me go, but its too late. I spin to face him and the room tilts for a second. He catches my elbow before I can stumble, and his face hardens at once.

“Sit.”

“No.”

“Sofiya.”

“No.”

He steps in and grips my chin, not hard, just enough to make me look at him. “You’re pale.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“And you’re leaving with me.”

My eyes drop to his mouth before I can stop them. They still look like the mistake I already made once and still think about in bed when I’m supposed to be sleeping. Heat crawls through me again, and the shame of it nearly makes me dizzy.

He sees that too. “Look at you,” he says quietly. “Still wanting me while you’re trying to kill me with your eyes.”

I jerk free of his hand. “Keep flattering yourself.”

His gaze drops down the front of me and comes back up slower than it should. “I don’t need to.”

I hate him. I want him. I want to shove him into the wall and make him choke on all that confidence. I want his mouth on mine hard enough to wipe out the last ten minutes. None of that helps me.

He bends, snatches the gun off the counter, checks it, and tucks it into the back of his waistband. Then he takes my coat from the chair, swings it up, and holds it open.

I don’t move. His eyes lift. “Don’t make me dress you.”

“Try it.”

He steps in, takes my arm, and slides it into the sleeve anyway. I wrench back. He catches the other side, gets that sleeve on too, and then his hands land briefly at my shoulders as he settles the coat into place. Strong hands. Warm hands. Hands that were between my legs in Prague and on my throat and in my hair, and now they’re buttoning my coat like this is some obscene domestic scene I never agreed to.

“You are insane,” I tell him.

“And you are pregnant with my child and standing in a compromised apartment with a cousin who wants you found before morning.”

His hands drop to the scarf on the table. The one with the drive in the hem.

“No,” I say immediately, taking it first. He watches me wrap it around my neck. His gaze is unreadable for one beat, then faint amusement returns.

“Good place for it,” he says.