Page 41 of Bratva Baby

Ice slides down my spine. “You went through my things.”

“I went through the room.”

“You don’t own the room, either.”

His mouth curves. “You’d be surprised what I can acquire in a hurry.”

He takes my bag, checks the contents with quick, efficient hands, and slings it over his shoulder before I can stop him. Then he nods toward the door.

“Move.”

I stand there. He cocks his head slightly. “You really want the shoulder version, don’t you?”

“Don’t touch me again.”

“Then walk.”

I grab the doorknob and wrench it open myself, more to prove I can than anything else. The hallway beyond is quiet. He puts one hand low at my back and guides me out. The touch is firm, warm, and maddeningly careful. I want to throw his hand off. I don’t.

We make it halfway to the stairs before I do try to bolt.

I twist out from under his hand, cut hard left, and almost make the landing before he catches me around the waist again. He drags me back into him, turns me toward the wall, and pins me there with his body for one hot, furious second.

“Enough,” he says.

My pulse jumps. His eyes flick to my mouth again like he felt the same thing and is enjoying it more.

I bristle up at him. “You can’t order me around like some little soldier you’ve picked up off the road.”

His mouth is close enough now that if I rise even a little, I’ll hit it. “No,” he says. “Soldiers are easier.”

Then he lets me go and takes my hand, not my wrist this time, his fingers closing hard around mine like it’s safer and more insulting at once. He walks me down the stairs that way, his grip unbreakable, my breath coming too fast for reasons that have split in three directions, and all of them are ugly.

Outside, a black sedan waits at the curb with the engine running. A big man gets out of the front seat, coat open over a broad chest, pale eyes sweeping the street before they land on me.

“That her?”

“No,” I retort, moving an errant lock of hair away from my eye and glaring at him. “I’m local entertainment.”

His mouth twitches. “Sharp.”

Anton opens the rear door and looks at me. “In.”

“Die.”

His hand lands at the base of my spine. “That’s later. Get in.”

His voice is rough again, and my body reacts before my pride can stop it. I turn on him, furious at myself more than him now, but he just looks down at me with that same darkly amused expression like he knows exactly what I’m fighting and how badly I’m losing.

“Keep glaring,” he says. “It does excellent things to your face.”

I get in the car before I say something so vicious it can’t be taken back. He follows, shutting the door with a final click that makes the whole thing feel worse. The man from the front seat slides back in too, says something to the driver, and we pull away fast.

I go for the opposite handle at once. Locked.

Anton catches my hand without looking, folds my fingers shut, and puts my hand back in my lap like I’m a child trying cabinet doors. “Stop doing that.”

“Stop kidnapping me.”