Page 36 of Bratva Baby

The door to my apartment looks normal, but my whole gut is screaming telling me there’s some kind of an emergency going on. I stand there with the pharmacy bag in one hand and the keys in the other, listening hard enough to hear my own pulse.

Nothing.

I set the bag down quietly, reach into my coat, and wrap my fingers around the grip of the gun. Then I fit the key into the lock and turn it one slow click at a time.

The door opens.

I step inside, close it softly behind me, and get two steps into the dark before a man’s voice says, low and calm, “Put the gun down, Sofiya.”

I know that voice.

My whole body goes still.

Anton is sitting in the chair by the window like he belongs in it, one ankle over the opposite knee, coat open, sleeves rolled, and his face half lost in shadow until the streetlight catches the line of it when he leans forward.

His gaze moves over me once and settles on the gun in my hand. Then he looks at my face and smiles very slightly. “You’re even prettier when you’re about to do something stupid.”

12

ANTON

She wobbles on her feet, caught between running from me, hitting me, or folding onto the floor. I move fast and catch her before she can drop. One second, she’s all nerves and fight. The next, her weight gives way into me.

I take the gun and set it aside, get a hand around her arms before she hits the floor, and lower her into the chair by the table. Her head falls against my chest for half a second before she jerks it back up. She’s shaking. Her hands are cold enough to push my temper another notch higher.

I cross to the sink, fill a cup with warm tap water, and bring it back. I touch the rim to her mouth first. “Drink.”

She takes a little, then turns her face away when I splash some over her throat and the side of her neck. A few drops darken her coat. I pull the curtain back just enough to let light into the room while keeping the apartment covered from the street. When I turn back, she’s staring at me, vexed and proud, like she hates that I’ve seen her off balance at all.

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice rough.

I brace one hand on the table and lean down into her space. “You can start with why you ran from Prague.” She turns her face away.

I catch her jaw between my fingers and turn her back to me. “Answer me,” I say. My voice stays low.

Her grey-blue eyes flash up at me, cold now, hard. “You broke into my apartment to ask questions?”

“I had my reasons.” I let her go, then watch the faint marks my fingers leave on her naturally pale skin. I drag my gaze from her face to her coat, to the bag still hanging from one shoulder. “What did you take from your family?”

“Nothing that belongs to you.”

“Wrong answer.” I plant a foot beside her chair and bend, bringing my face close to her, holding her eyes on mine.

“I could kill you,” she snaps, eyes bright and furious.

“With that?” I snort. “Yeah, you looked like a real assassin there.”

She tries to push up fast and slip past me. I catch her wrist and shove her back down. Anger hits her face at once.

“Let go.” Her beautiful mouth pulls tight, and that only makes it worse.

“Who’s hunting you?” I ask.

“You tell me. You seem to enjoy following,” she spits.

A humorless smile pulls at my mouth. “That’s rich coming from a woman who’s made running her specialty and acts offended when she’s found.”

Her free hand snatches the nearest stack of papers from the table and throws them at my chest. Pages slap my shirt, burst across my arms, and spin onto the floor between us. She goes for the gap she created. I catch her again, one arm locking around her waist this time, and drag her back against me while the last sheets settle. It knocks the breath out of both of us for a second.