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“You grossly underestimate just how far I will go to protect my family.” I’m so close to his face, I can smell the whiskey he must’ve drank before he put Willow to bed. There’s a kitchen knife on the counter next to him. It would be so fucking easy. “Do not make the mistake of tempting me to prove it.”
He’s about to do exactly that when Clara reemerges. Her eyes are rimmed red, her cheeks streaked with wiped tears, and my instinctual reaction is to rush to her side and pull her into my arms.
But fucking Martin Patterson—this goddamn motherfucker on borrowed fucking time—swoops in and gives some sad attempt to do the same.
Clara dodges his advances.
Good.
“She’s… She’ll want to… I mean, if you want…”
I fuckinghatehow goddamn quiet she is. It’s like she’s terrified the next word is the wrong one that will get her backhanded into next week. She’s staring at the floor, hunched in on herself, constantly shifting away from Martin’s attempts to hold her.
Someone needs to give me one solid fucking reason why I can’t break his neck where he stands.
Clara peeks up at me. Then glances at the hallway.
Willow.Right.
I swallow down my rage and go to my daughter.
Willow is sound asleep in her bed, which amounts to a lone mattress on some flimsy metal box spring-frame combo. It’s obvious Clara has done the best she can to make this a safe space for a little girl, going as far as to tape her crayon drawings on the wall.
But it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough to embrace Willow with the warmth, love, and safety she deserves from her father.
At least she has Princess, who is curled up protectively around her and watching me closely as I quietly approach the bed.
“Good girl,” I whisper when I crouch and rub her ears. “You keep my baby safe, okay?”
Princess softly whines and licks my hand. We have an agreement.
I watch Willow’s sleeping face for as long as I can, studying every angelic feature as if I’ll never see her again. I know I have to act like I won’t. I have to live as if this was just a short, fantasy-filled blip in my life.
“I’ll be back, little cub.” I whisper in her ear before pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “I love you.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
ASSHOLE:It’s done. We have Tolya.
I slowly stand. I don’t want to leave, but I have to.
“Remember our deal,” I murmur to the dog.
Princess whines, then rests her head on Willow’s stomach and watches me leave.
39
DEMYEN
“My boys!” Oleg laughs with his hands in the air. “Finally! At last!”
Tolya eyes me grimly, the visual polar opposite of our father’s glee. He’s finally free of that cursed orange jumpsuit, his hands in the pockets of new jeans and a clean Henley with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He’s even shaved, and I have to admit—it’s weirdly satisfying to see him without the facial hair that makes him look so much like our old man.
We agreed to meet at my private hangar, and I can see that Oleg wasted no time in ordering my crew around to prepare the jet for our international excursion. The engines are roaring to life and some sick part of me wonders how hard I need to shove Oleg to make a “terrible accident” happen inside their oscillating blades.
He claps a hand on my shoulder, his other on Tolya’s, and steers us toward the jet. “My men tell me the meetings have been arranged back home. We’ll get this sorted out, and we will return with reinforcements!”
I steal a quick glance at my brother. As much as he’s probably relieved to be out of prison, it doesn’t show in his demeanor at all. Instead of falling in line with our father’s footsteps, he shifts so the old man goes up the stairs first.
