Chapter 3 #2
A raw fury that he had the fucking nerve to show up here after I had scraped and clawed and somehow managed to put myself back together after he had broken me.
After making promises… after getting in my head, taking my body, stealing my heart, he’d left abruptly with a half-ass explanation and then no word for a year.
A whole fucking year! One thing these fools would never run out of was audacity!
“Fuck you,” I hissed.
He laughed softly. “In due time, malyshka. For now, let’s just talk. Get in.”
I couldn’t really see him, but I hoped he saw my face, prayed that it was illuminated by the streetlights as I twisted it into the fiercest scowl I could. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“That’s too bad. You know, Malik was a real one, had his whole life in front of him. You ‘bout to have the whole hood asking, ‘Who got the body?’”
The thread of humor in his voice pissed me off worse. He was talking about killing someone, and he was amused? Sick bastard.
“I don’t have all night, pretty one,” he said, then flipped on the interior lights.
And there he was. Targen Jones. Or was it Sidorov now?
I hated myself for the way my eyes greedily swept his frame, taking in the changes.
He was thinner, but just as muscular. New tattoos crept up his neck, down his forearms, and along the length of his fingers.
And his scars looked… different. In a black fitted tee and black jeans, he was as handsome to me as he’d ever been.
Steel gray eyes gazed out at me, the look in them soft.
“Still so pretty, milaya. Come here. I just want to talk to you,” he promised.
I didn’t want to, even though his voice made my blood sing, made it rush and warm me in ways I hadn’t felt since he left.
It was only the threat against Malik that had me reluctantly climbing into the truck’s luxe interior.
Mikhail closed the door behind me, the quiet sound resonating, like the dramatic sound of a prison door.
Targen reached toward me, and I inhaled sharply, pressing myself into the seat. I knew instinctively that I couldn’t take his touch.
“Don’t—” I stopped as he grabbed the seatbelt and strapped me in.
“Precious cargo,” he murmured.
I turned to stare out the window, refusing to give him my eyes.
“It’s a bitch ass move, blackmailing me into this car by threatening an innocent man’s life,” I mumbled.
“That fuck boy who held your hand and kissed on you? Nah, he ain’t innocent,” he countered.
“Don’t hurt him!”
“I’m done talking about him.”
I could tell by his tone—cold, determined, final—that he truly was. He just didn’t know that I was circling back to this.
“What do you want with me? Did you change your last name? Why you out here telling people I’m your wife?”
I peppered him with questions like I had a damn switch installed.
“Go,” Targen ordered, tapping on the partition after Mikhail had climbed in the front of the Range with the driver. He returned his attention to me. “One–I want what I always wanted with you. Two–yeah, it’s Jones-Sidorov now. Three–because you will be soon.”
I laughed then, so hard that tears gathered in my eyes. I giggled. I did the dreaded chortling. I may have even snorted. His face remained the same the whole time—serious, like he meant what he said. He was good at that, looking honest. But I wasn’t falling for that mess anymore.
“FYI, I wouldn’t marry you even if God ordained it. You must be taking some good shit. Is that why your ass so skinny?” I taunted.
Targen leaned forward and turned toward me.
“Watch that pretty little mouth, shorty. I’d hate for you to have to eat all them words. You gon’ be my wife, Theory. Get used to the idea.”
His words touched somewhere deep inside me, made me think, for one moment, about—
I shook my head. “Whateva, with your delusional ass. Do you do anything except imagine shit? Fucking liar.”
Targen stiffened, his expression crumbling, changing into something that ignited a spark of fear in me.
“Take me home,” I said, hating the shakiness of my voice.
“I am.”
“You going the wrong way, then.”
“Nah, milaya. I’m taking you to our home,” he said calmly.
My head swiveled, and I glared at him. “Yeah, your mind is gone. Take me home before I kick your ass!”
It was a ridiculous threat, but I felt wired enough, so full of anger and fear and feelings I couldn’t or wouldn’t name, to take his big ass down. He just smirked at me.
And the driver kept going.
“Targen, I-”
I stopped when he cupped my cheek, the molten silver of his eyes boring into mine. His touch was warm, unexpectedly familiar, and my already racing heart went into overdrive. I fought the urge to close my eyes and sink into the soft caress against my cheek.
“All those nights… I thought of you saying my name, milaya. I missed that,” he whispered.
His voice was low and intoxicating, a sound meant to lull me into forgetting the weeks of lies and broken promises he’d fed me. I’d worked too hard to heal from that heartache. I knocked his hand away, and then, just because, I slapped his face with all the rage bottled inside me.
“Don’t you fucking touch me,” I spat. “Liar- ahh!”
I squealed as he grabbed me, not tight enough to hurt or really restrain me. But it was his face—the look on it as he growled at me.
“Don’t fucking call me that again. I don’t lie. I’m back, and I’m going to give you everything I promised.”
And just as quickly, he released me and settled back into his seat.
“So,” he said, his voice smooth like he hadn’t just snapped at me. “I would ask what you’ve been up to, wifey, but I already know.”