Page 9 of The Brat: Prequel

His nostrils flare. “Why do you want to talk to this guy?”

“Because I do.”

“Helpful, Victoria. Real informative.”

“Maxim drove me around for years before he sent me any kind of gifts in the mail. I’ll be fine.”

“What if he drives off?”

“I’m allied with your families,” Maxim answers for me, blatantly eavesdropping into the conversation. “My position is still precarious. I’d be a fool to jeopardize that.”

Shay scoffs, but those were the magic words. “I’ll be waiting over there.” He points to a streetlight that’s barely two feet away.

Honestly. “Thanks, Shay.”

“I’m frickin’ crazy, that’s what. Dad is gonna kill me if this goes sideways,” he mumbles as I jump into the passenger side. “And expect my guards to go full Rambo as soon as they stop eating hotdogs and⁠—”

Tuning out the rest of his diatribe, I turn to Maxim expectantly. His lips quirk at my expression. “You weren’t afraid of the head at all, were you?”

“It shocked me at first, I admit. It looked like some kind of prop. Then, I was glad.” Vindication had made me sob—another man involved in my abduction was taken out of the equation.

Thanks to Maxim.

“Blood thirst is in your DNA.”

“Not in Inessa’s.”

And I used to think she was a badass…

“She’s a princess. You’re not.”

“Hey!”

He laughs. “We both know you’re not. You only pretended to be. You were a chameleon. Slipping in and out of your father’s awareness. Trying to escape his attention once you knew that nothing you did would ever be good enough for him.”

My brow furrows. “I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me.”

“I’m not. If anything, I’m applauding your survival instincts.”

“Wouldn’t have gotten into this car if they were that good.”

He shrugs. “You know you’re safe with me.”

And there’s the rub.

I do.

I’ve always known it. When he drove me around like a lunatic, I knew I’d be okay. When he’d shout at his friends on the phone then talk to me with the utmost kindness. When he’d see bruises on my arms from Papa’s temper... chocolate always showed up at some point during our drive and within the week, Papa would trip over something.

I still don’t know how Maxim organized that.

Or so often.

“Why are you here?”

“You shouldn’t be going to the public library.”

“The Irish guards give me more freedom than you did,” I jeer.