Page 77 of Vicious Betrayal

She flinches, but she obeys, curling forward in her seat, her hands gripping her knees. I keep a steady pace, but when the SUV drops behind a rise on the highway, I veer sharply off on an approaching access road. I hit the brakes hard, gravel spraying as I veer off into the trees, just in time to catch a glimpse of the Explorer blowing past, clearly missing where I veered off.

I don't slow down. I follow the old track through the trees until I find another county road, and I pull off, heading the opposite direction.

My breathing is fast and shallow, the adrenaline humming in my fingertips. Beside me, Oksana is trembling violently. "Are they gone?" she whispers, her voice shaking.

"For now," I growl.

I scan the tree line until I spot a gas station. It looks so empty it might actually be abandoned. I pull the car around to the rear, kill the engine, and yank the keys from the ignition. The silence that falls over the car is deafening.

I turn in my seat, my eyes locking onto her. The fear on her face is palpable, but beneath the fear, I see her trying to anticipate my next move. The rage that I’ve been holding back comes roaring up into my throat.

I reach across the console, wrap my fingers around her upper arm, and shove my door open. "Out."

"Cormac, please⁠—"

"Out of the fucking car, Oksana."

I drag her out. She stumbles, but I keep a tight grip on her arm, hauling her upright before she can fall. I march her toward the metal door at the side of the service station, a single-occupancy restroom.

I kick the door inward. It screeches on rusted hinges, and I shove her inside, step in behind her, and slam the heavy door shut. The space is tiny. The sudden confinement brings us chest-to-chest, the cold air filling with the harsh sound of our mingled breathing.

I back her up until the edge of the old porcelain sink hits the small of her back. I don't hit her. I don't raise a fist. I've never laid a violent hand on a woman in my life, and I won't start now. But I plant my hands on the rim of the sink on either side of her hips, trapping her completely and towering over her until my shadow covers her entirely. "Look at me," I command, my voice dropping to a low rasp.

Her chest is heaving. Her blue eyes are wide and glassy with unshed tears, but she lifts her chin and meets my gaze.

"You listen to me very carefully," I say, leaning in until my face is inches from hers, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my skin. "If we get stopped again, if you so much as blink at someone wrong, if you twitch a finger to signal a patrol car, or try to run toward a badge, you are going to regret it for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?"

Her breath catches in her throat. "I have spent twenty years," I continue, the words tearing out of me with a vicious, controlled intensity, "spilling my blood for men like Lachlan and Declan. I helped build that organization with my own two hands. The men who work under me are my brothers. They are the only family I've ever had in this godforsaken world. And I will be damned in hell before I let everything I’ve built get torn to the ground because I was stupid enough to let a twenty-year-old girl honeytrap me."

The word hangs between us, poisoning the air. Oksana’s eyes flash. The fear in her face suddenly fractures, giving way to a burst of raw, reckless defiance that makes my blood run hot. She wrenches her arm back, slamming her hands against my chest to push me away. I don't budge an inch, but the force of her shove sends a shockwave through the space between us.

"You think I honeytrapped you?" she cries, her voice breaking on the words with desperate anger. "You think this was all some game to me? I might have lied, Cormac. I might have kept secrets from you. But you did a damn good job pretending to be a man who wasn't a cold, heartless asshole!"

I thought I was past her hurting me, but the insult feels like a knife between my ribs. It tears open something I thought had already stopped bleeding.

I lean down further, closing the remaining fraction of space until my lips are brushing against the shell of her ear, my Irish accent thick. "You wouldn't have seen this side of me if you were a woman who actually wanted me," I whisper savagely into her ear. "If you were a real wife, you’d have had the best of me until the day I died. But you’re not my wife, Oksana. You’re an enemy."

I pull back just enough to look directly into her eyes. "And this is how I treat enemies."

She freezes. The color drains completely from her face, leaving her impossibly pale, her lips parting in a gasp. For a moment, I see the depth of the wound my words have carved into her, her expression so shattered that my own chest aches with the phantom pain of it.

She's acting, I tell myself fiercely, trying to drown out the voice in my head that screams she’s not. She's a liar. She sold you out.

Her blue eyes bore into mine, searching for some crack in the armor, some lingering trace of the man who held her in the dark and whispered promises into her hair.

She finds nothing. I lock every muscle in my face until I'm nothing more than the stone-cold enforcer Declan relies on to clean up messes.

Her lower lip trembles, then she presses her mouth into a hard, bloodless line. She turns her head away, staring at the cracked tile wall, refusing to give me another tear.

The proximity between us is unbearable. My thighs are pressed against hers, her sweet, familiar scent cutting through the mustiness of the room, her rapid pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. I want to shake her until the truth spills out. I want to drag her against me and kiss her.

Instead, I push back from the sink. I reach down, unlock the deadbolt, and pull the door open. The gray morning light floods the tiny room.

"Get in the car," I say, my voice hard. "We’ve got a long drive ahead of us."

22

OKSANA