Page 45 of Bratva Baby

“Not tonight.”

The front passenger crouches beside us and glances at me once, checking whether I’m hit. “You all right?”

I spare a scowl at him. “Define all right.”

He snorts, then looks back at Anton. “I signaled the fallback.”

Anton nods. “Good.”

He turns to me and wipes a streak of dirt off my cheek with his thumb before I can stop him. “Any pain?”

I stare. “What?”

“Any pain. You fell twice.”

“I’m fine.”

“Answer like you want me to believe you.”

His thumb is still against my face, warm, big, and familiar enough to pull Prague straight up from my spine. I hate that I lean into it for the smallest second before I catch myself and jerk away. “I said I’m fine.”

That almost makes him smile again. Lights flash once through the trees below us. Then once more. Anton answers with his phone light, covering most of it in his palm. The front passenger helps the driver up. Anton catches my hand and gets me moving before I can object to that too.

The van that picks us up looks like it carries vegetables and old plumbing parts for hire. The man behind the wheel is in his sixties, flat cap, rough coat, no expression. He opens the side door, takes in the blood, the mud, the guns, and me, then jerks his head.

“Inside.”

No questions. I like him already.

The ride is ugly. Hard turns, rough roads, and no decent suspension. Anton sits beside me on a narrow bench and braces one hand behind me every time the van jolts. It should feel insulting. It feels necessary. My body shakes once the adrenaline starts dropping, and I tuck my hands under my arms so he won’t see.

He sees.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“Lying.”

“I don’t owe you accuracy.”

His hand lands on my knee, warm and broad through wet fabric. “You owe me plenty.”

The words make me furious but they also make my stomach dip in a way that has nothing to do with the road.

The inn appears at the end of a lane so narrow I’d never have found it alone. White walls. Dark roof. One lantern at the side door. From the front it could be an ordinary family place. From the way the back entrance opens before we even knock, it clearly isn’t.

The owner ushers us in through a kitchen that smells like roasting meat, butter, and onions, and I nearly groan from hunger right there. We go upstairs. One room. Heavy curtains. Narrow bathroom. Bed too close to everything. Table under the window. Hooks by the door. A room meant for hiding, not living.

Anton checks both windows before he says a word. He tests the lock, looks under the bed, checks the wardrobe, then finally turns back to me. “Sit.”

I toss my bag onto the chair. “You have a very limited vocabulary when you’re armed.”

“And you have a very poor survival instinct for a woman who keeps managing to survive.”

I shove my wet hair back from my face. “Are you going to answer a question tonight, or just keep moving me around like freight?”

His eyes go over me once, taking in the mud on my coat, the scarf at my throat, the tremor I still haven’t fully beaten, and then he takes out his phone and makes a call before replying. “Talk.”