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“Ourdaughter, Clara.” Martin’s grip on my arm tightens. “And you took her from me.”
“You’re gonna wanna remove your hand,” I warn him icily, nodding in the direction of the security guards nearby. They’re watching, though they’re not intervening.
Yet.
Martin reluctantly peels his fingers off of my bicep. “I don’t like this attitude?—”
“And I don’t like the way you treat me. Or Willow.”
That deflates him. He sighs, slumps a bit, then nods. “Yeah. You’re right.” He runs a hand through his thin hair and the glare fades into this puppy-dog pleading that used to work on me, once upon a time. “I’ve been thinking about seeing a therapist. Getting help for this. I want to be a better man for you, Clara. Ijust… I need you home. I need you and Willow home, with me, supporting me.”
I wish I could take a moment to unpack whatever’s going on deep inside me. Because I know, if this conversation had happened weeks ago, I would be a sobbing mess in his arms. I would cling to his sweet, empty promises and beg for his forgiveness for ever leaving him, for taking Willow, for making him suffer loneliness.
But it’s happening right now. After weeks of living with Demyen, in his world, surrounded by his physical and theoretical protection. Weeks of watching my daughter flourish in ways I’ve never seen before.
“You need help, Martin. But you need to get it without me.”
“I’ll be good?—”
“You couldn’t ‘be good’ if you had a fucking roadmap!” I seethe, firmly tearing his fingers off my wrist when he grabs me again. “Take the hint and leave. Now.”
“Or what?” Martin steps into my space with a snarl. “What are you gonna do, huh? Nothing. You’ve got nothing because youarenothing.”
Part of my brain registers that as the blow he intends it to be. I try to hide the wince, but he notices it and he grabs onto it like a leech.
“That’s right, baby. You’re nothing without me. How can you support raising Willow on minimum wage? Gonna walk the streets? Spread your legs for a quick buck?” Martin tugs me close to him, smiling like this is just any other normal conversation between any other normal couple. “You and I both know I’mthe only man who can warm your bed. I’m the only man in this world who will ever want you. I don’t care how ugly you got after you had the baby. Getting fat, saggy tits, stretch marks… I don’t care. But that’s because I love you. Other men, they?—”
“Get your fucking hands off my woman.”
Martin’s eyes widen at the man now standing behind me. Then he narrows into his signature glare—but before he can protest, Demyen rips me out of Martin’s grasp and tucks me close to his own side.
“You okay?” Demyen dips his head to nuzzle my hair, murmuring the words in my ear. His thumb traces a slow, lazy circle over my stomach where his hand rests.
I’m gonna need Dramamine for the whiplash this man’s mood swings give me.
I nod and give him a meek smile. “We were just talking.”
“Hm.” Demyen focuses a steady gaze at Martin, which is almost worse than his glare. “I believe my lawyer showed you the exit, Detective.”
Martin growls. “And I believe you lied to me, Mr. Zakrevsky. I should arrest you for obstructing justice and impeding an investigation.”
“For what?”
“When I questioned you about Clara’s whereabouts?—”
“Did you file a missing person’s report? Open up a formal investigation?”
Martin shuts his mouth. He’s fuming. He’s fuming because obviously, he didn’t. He couldn’t. So he shifts his focus back tome, which doesn’t help soothe his anger seeing me in Demyen’s arms. “Clara, you need to come home with me. Now.”
Demyen laughs. “Take the fucking hint, Detective. She doesn’t want you; she doesn’t want your shithole of a life. You’ve been upgraded. Accept it.”
Martin stares at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted three extra heads. “I don’t know what lies you’ve told this son of a bitch, but?—”
I don’t have the breath of a second to respond. One moment, I’m bracing myself for a barrage of insults from Martin. The next, I’m pressed flush against Demyen’s chest, his free hand tangled in my hair at the scalp and holding me in place for the perfect angle for the perfect kiss.
And my God, what a kiss it is.
My toes curl before I can register any sensation other than sheer electricity coursing through my body. His tongue sweeps between my lips and glides over my own, drawing me into him with a low groan. Right when I think he’s going to pull away for air, he breaks the kiss—only to adjust the angle and devour me once more.
