Page 42 of Bratva Baby

His eyes cut to mine. “I’m extracting you.”

“Is that what you’re calling it to help yourself sleep?”

He snorts. “I sleep fine.”

“I doubt you sleep at all.”

His mouth shifts. “Not since Prague.”

That shuts me up for half a second, which is apparently all he wanted.

The car turns hard. City lights smear past the glass. Anton sits beside me with one arm stretched along the back of the seat, all long legs and heavy shoulders and infuriating male calm, and every time I glance at him, I remember exactly how that body felt over mine.

I remember his mouth on my throat, his voice in my ear telling me to look at him, the hotel glass cold at my back and the heat of his hand between my thighs, and now here he is stealing me out of my own life like he always had the right.

I look away first, but he notices.

“Talk,” he says.

“No.”

“What did you take from Maks?”

“Nothing that belongs to you.”

He leans closer. “You’re carrying my child, hiding clinic papers in a rented room, and getting chased by men who don’t cross borders for gossip. Answer me properly for once.”

I fold my arms and stare at the window. “Maybe you should work on being someone people tell things to.”

He laughs under his breath. “That was almost good.”

“Thank you.”

“Still not enough.”

The man in the front seat glances back. “Do you two need privacy, or can I stay worried about the route?”

“Stay worried,” Anton says.

His hand lands on my knee when the car takes another turn. He leaves it there as though that is the most natural thing in the world, and I hate how quickly the contact settles me.

He feels that too.

His thumb moves once, a small stroke over the fabric of my tights, and my breath catches. His gaze drops to my mouth. “Still doing it,” he says softly.

I want to deny it. I want to tell him to take his hand off me. Instead I hear myself say, “You’re very pleased with yourself tonight.”

His eyes lift to mine, darker now, heavier. “I found you. You hid my baby from me. I got to your door before Maks did. Yes, I’m pleased with myself.”

The words hit too many places at once. Possession. Arrogance. Protection. Sex. Anger. I can’t sort any of it, and the failure makes me want to scream.

“Don’t call it that.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Why? It’s true.”

“It’s not yours alone.”

“Didn’t say it was.” His hand squeezes my knee once, almost absently. “I said it was mine too.”