Page 78 of Vicious Betrayal

Cormac doesn't look at me as he escorts me back to the car. Every step I take feels clumsy, but I keep my chin up and my mouth shut.

You're not my wife, Oksana. You're an enemy. And this is how I treat enemies.

The words hurt every time I hear them in my head again. I climb into the passenger seat without a word. He slams his door, fires up the engine, and pulls us back out onto the road.

We drive in silence. The heater blows over my knees, but I can't stop shivering. My stomach gives an unpleasant flip, and I press both hands flat over my belly, curling slightly toward the window.

Cormac doesn't take us back toward the highway. Instead, he navigates unmarked county roads until we hit the outskirts of a semi-rural town. He turns into the rear lot of an auto repair yard surrounded by a chain-link fence, pulls the car behind the building, and kills the lights. "Stay here," he orders, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Keep your head down below the glass. If you make a sound, you'll regret it."

"Where are you going?" I whisper, my voice raspy.

He doesn't answer. He just steps out and vanishes into the gloom between the parked vehicles.

I sit curled on the seat, listening to the tick of the cooling engine and the distant clang of a train. My heart hammers against my ribs. A part of me screams that this is my chance to run. I could open the door, slip past the fence, find a convenience store…

And then what?

I have nothing. Cormac has my phone. I can't remember a fucking thing about what I saw on that laptop. I didn't think I'd have to. If I go back to her now, I'm going to prison. I've utterly failed unless I have my phone.

And if I stay with Cormac, what then?

A quiet click sounds from the darkness outside. Before I can draw another breath, the passenger door of a dark green, slightly rusted Chevy parked ten feet away swings open. Cormac is in the driver's seat, leaning under the steering column with a pocketknife and a small flashlight clamped between his teeth. Within thirty seconds, the engine rumbles to life.

He steps out and opens my door. "Move. Now."

I scramble out of the car and climb into the passenger seat of the new car. The cabin smells like stale tobacco. Cormac tosses his duffel bag into the rear seat, slides behind the wheel, and eases us out of the lot without using the headlights until we hit the main road.

We drive for another four hours. The wind picks up, hinting at another storm, but it doesn't rain yet. Eventually, Cormac pulls into another old motel off the road, goes to pay cash for a room while keeping the car within his line of sight, and then comes back for me.

The room is just as shitty as the last one, with the same old furniture and dated comforter on the bed. He tosses a bag from a drive-through we passed on the way here onto the table.

"Eat," he says, his voice flat. There's no warmth in it.

I look at the greasy bag. The smell of fried chicken and grease immediately makes my stomach flip. I swallow hard, pressing a hand against my chest, and shake my head. "I can't."

Cormac's jaw sets. He takes a step toward me, towering over the small space between the bed and the door. "I didn't ask if you wanted it, Oksana. I told you to eat. You're carrying my child, and you're not going to starve it to spite me."

The unfairness of it strikes me like a whip. Anger cuts right through my exhaustion.

"I'm not trying to spite anyone!" I snap, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. "I feel sick, Cormac. The smell of it makes me want to throw up. But of course, you wouldn't know that, because you don't actually care how I feel; you just want something else to bark orders about."

"I care about keeping my baby alive," he growls, stepping closer until his boots are nearly touching mine. The sheer bulk of him fills my vision, the heat coming off his broad chest radiating right through the chilly room. "That's the only reason you're sitting in a warm room instead of being locked in a cellar until Declan decides what to do with you."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" I scoff, stepping right into his space, my head tilted back to look straight into his furious eyes. "That you're just doing your duty? You took my rings off like I meant nothing to you, but you can't even stand on the other side of the room without staring at me. You look at me like you want to tear my clothes off, and then you act like I'm the only monster here."

A flush creeps up his neck, staining his cheekbones. His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, his nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling in harsh, heavy breaths. For a heartbeat, the air between us crackles with that familiar electricity. The memory of his mouth on mine, of his rough hands gripping my hips against the bathroom sink, crashes through my head so vividly my knees go weak. I can see the exact same hunger warring behind his glare, that reckless, possessive need that made him pull me onto his motorcycle the night we met.

He reaches out, his fingers catching my chin in an iron grip. His thumb brushes against the curve of my lower lip, rough and calloused, sending a treacherous jolt of heat straight down my spine.

"Don't flatter yourself," he whispers, his Irish brogue dropping to a lethal purr that vibrates against my skin. "Desiring a woman's body doesn't mean I trust a single breath that comes out of her lying mouth. You gave yourself to me to buy time for your handler. Every time you spread your legs, you were thinking about how to bury me."

Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them spill. He doesn't know that every touch, every moan, every time I arched against him on his bed was the truest thing I've ever felt in my life. And I can't tell him, because he won't fucking listen to me. I don't even think he'd believe me any longer, anyway.

"You believe whatever you need to believe to sleep at night," I choke out, jerking my chin out of his grasp.

He stares at his empty hand for a second, his fingers curling into a tight, white-knuckled fist. Then, without another word, he grabs a bottle of ginger ale from the gas station bag, cracks the cap, and sets it on the nightstand with a sharp thud. "Drink the soda," he says coldly, turning his back on me. "It'll settle your stomach. Then eat and get some sleep."

He pulls one of the chairs over to the door, sits down with his back against it, and rests his gun across his thigh.