13. Sofiya
SOFIYA
“You’re coming with me, Sofiya, whether you agree or not.”
A laugh tears out of me, harsh and disbelieving, and I swipe at my face with the heel of my hand before I can stop myself. “You kick in my door, read my medical papers, decide my child is now your concern, and you think I’m just going to go with that.”
His eyes stay on mine, dark and steady and much too calm for this situation. “You hid a pregnancy from me,” he says, and there’s a rough edge under the control now. “That did you no favors.”
I stare at him. “I was alone.”
“You were hiding.”
“Same thing.”
His mouth shifts slightly, and I hate how much I want to bite it. “No,” he says. “Alone means abandoned. Hiding means you made a choice.”
I push off the wall and go for my bag. He catches the strap before I can get it over my shoulder, and his knuckles brush the side of my breast in the same movement. Heat flashes low and fast, ugly in its timing and worse in how instantly my body knows him. “Don’t,” I snap.
His gaze flicks to my mouth, then lower, to where the scarf sits at my throat. “You still do that.”
“Do what?”
“Get that look in your eyes when you’re furious and wet at the same time.”
My face burns. “You disgusting bastard.”
His smile turns faint and filthy. “There you are.”
I yank hard on the strap. He just steps in closer until I have to tilt my head back to keep looking at him, and that only makes it worse. I know this man’s hands, know what happens when his voice drops and his mouth gets too close to mine.
I know it too well.
“You don’t get to show up here and decide anything,” I say.
He actually has the gall to look amused. “Wait till I tell you the part where I already decided on the plane.”
I scowl heavily at him. “That sounds like your problem.”
“It became yours when you put my child in play and ran.”
Something in me snaps. “I didn’t put anything in play. Maks did. My family did. You don’t get to walk in after one night and act like you’ve got the moral high ground.”
He lets that sit, but his fingers tighten once on the bag strap. “I’m not claiming the moral high ground,” he says. “I’m claiming the right to stop this from getting worse.”
I laugh again, shorter this time. “You really can’t hear yourself.”
“I hear myself just fine.” His eyes sweep over my face, my coat, the folder on the table, the tremor I’m trying to keep out of my hands.
“I also hear the part where you look exhausted, you’re seven weeks pregnant, your cousin is hunting you across borders, and you still think stubbornness is an exit plan. ”
My hand flies before I can think better of it, but he catches it again, the bastard. “That’s twice now,” he says, and he’s smiling again.
I struggle in his grasp as he shakes his head slightly. “Hit me again and I’ll put you over my shoulder and carry you out of here while you kick and scream.”
I hate that the image hits hard and humiliatingly hot. I hate him more when I see in his face that he knows exactly what it did.
“You need help,” I say.
He gives a short laugh. “Obviously.”
I bite down on his wrist. It surprises him enough that he pulls his hand back, and I use that split second to go for the gun on the counter. He moves faster, catches me around the waist, and drags me back against him before my fingers close on it.
My back hits his chest. His arm bands tightly under my ribs. The other hand lands over my wrist. He holds me easily, like he already knew this exact fight was coming and planned for it.
“Let me go.”
“Not until we’re downstairs.”
I twist hard, drive my heel down toward his foot, and he shifts just enough to take it without losing control. My hair catches at the collar of his coat when I jerk my head back, and then his mouth is right there near my ear, warm enough to make my breath snag.
“You can fight me all the way to the car,” he murmurs. “It won’t change the car.”
“God, I can’t stand you.”
His hand spreads flatter over my stomach for half a second before he seems to realize he did it. The contact is through layers, brief and accidental, and it still knocks something loose inside me.
He feels it—I know he does. His whole body stills around mine.
Then he lets me go, but its too late. I spin to face him and the room tilts for a second. He catches my elbow before I can stumble, and his face hardens at once.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Sofiya.”
“No.”
He steps in and grips my chin, not hard, just enough to make me look at him. “You’re pale.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re leaving with me.”
My eyes drop to his mouth before I can stop them. They still look like the mistake I already made once and still think about in bed when I’m supposed to be sleeping. Heat crawls through me again, and the shame of it nearly makes me dizzy.
He sees that too. “Look at you,” he says quietly. “Still wanting me while you’re trying to kill me with your eyes.”
I jerk free of his hand. “Keep flattering yourself.”
His gaze drops down the front of me and comes back up slower than it should. “I don’t need to.”
I hate him. I want him. I want to shove him into the wall and make him choke on all that confidence. I want his mouth on mine hard enough to wipe out the last ten minutes. None of that helps me.
He bends, snatches the gun off the counter, checks it, and tucks it into the back of his waistband. Then he takes my coat from the chair, swings it up, and holds it open.
I don’t move. His eyes lift. “Don’t make me dress you.”
“Try it.”
He steps in, takes my arm, and slides it into the sleeve anyway.
I wrench back. He catches the other side, gets that sleeve on too, and then his hands land briefly at my shoulders as he settles the coat into place.
Strong hands. Warm hands. Hands that were between my legs in Prague and on my throat and in my hair, and now they’re buttoning my coat like this is some obscene domestic scene I never agreed to.
“You are insane,” I tell him.
“And you are pregnant with my child and standing in a compromised apartment with a cousin who wants you found before morning.”
His hands drop to the scarf on the table. The one with the drive in the hem.
“No,” I say immediately, taking it first. He watches me wrap it around my neck. His gaze is unreadable for one beat, then faint amusement returns.
“Good place for it,” he says.
Ice slides down my spine. “You went through my things.”
“I went through the room.”
“You don’t own the room, either.”
His mouth curves. “You’d be surprised what I can acquire in a hurry.”
He takes my bag, checks the contents with quick, efficient hands, and slings it over his shoulder before I can stop him. Then he nods toward the door.
“Move.”
I stand there. He cocks his head slightly. “You really want the shoulder version, don’t you?”
“Don’t touch me again.”
“Then walk.”
I grab the doorknob and wrench it open myself, more to prove I can than anything else. The hallway beyond is quiet. He puts one hand low at my back and guides me out. The touch is firm, warm, and maddeningly careful. I want to throw his hand off. I don’t.
We make it halfway to the stairs before I do try to bolt.
I twist out from under his hand, cut hard left, and almost make the landing before he catches me around the waist again. He drags me back into him, turns me toward the wall, and pins me there with his body for one hot, furious second.
“Enough,” he says.
My pulse jumps. His eyes flick to my mouth again like he felt the same thing and is enjoying it more.
I bristle up at him. “You can’t order me around like some little soldier you’ve picked up off the road.”
His mouth is close enough now that if I rise even a little, I’ll hit it. “No,” he says. “Soldiers are easier.”
Then he lets me go and takes my hand, not my wrist this time, his fingers closing hard around mine like it’s safer and more insulting at once.
He walks me down the stairs that way, his grip unbreakable, my breath coming too fast for reasons that have split in three directions, and all of them are ugly.
Outside, a black sedan waits at the curb with the engine running. A big man gets out of the front seat, coat open over a broad chest, pale eyes sweeping the street before they land on me.
“That her?”
“No,” I retort, moving an errant lock of hair away from my eye and glaring at him. “I’m local entertainment.”
His mouth twitches. “Sharp.”
Anton opens the rear door and looks at me. “In.”
“Die.”
His hand lands at the base of my spine. “That’s later. Get in.”
His voice is rough again, and my body reacts before my pride can stop it. I turn on him, furious at myself more than him now, but he just looks down at me with that same darkly amused expression like he knows exactly what I’m fighting and how badly I’m losing.
“Keep glaring,” he says. “It does excellent things to your face.”
I get in the car before I say something so vicious it can’t be taken back. He follows, shutting the door with a final click that makes the whole thing feel worse. The man from the front seat slides back in too, says something to the driver, and we pull away fast.
I go for the opposite handle at once. Locked.
Anton catches my hand without looking, folds my fingers shut, and puts my hand back in my lap like I’m a child trying cabinet doors. “Stop doing that.”
“Stop kidnapping me.”
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.”
I look down at that big, veined, and familiar hand. It can hold a gun, break a man’s wrist, or make me come hard enough to bite a pillow. My whole body throbs with memory. My whole mind rebels.
He sees where I’m looking and smirks. “Dangerous train of thought, Sofiya.”
“Shut up.”
His mouth curves again. “You were always prettier when you were angry.”
I look away fast and focus on the glass. Budapest outside is all intersections and dirty light and too many chances to be seen. The front seat man says something under his breath. The driver answers in Hungarian.
Anton’s hand leaves my knee. The loss of it irritates me more than it should.
“What?” I ask.
No one answers right away.
Then the front seat man twists halfway around and looks at Anton. “We’ve got a problem.”
Anton looks through the rear window once. His whole body changes. Heat gone. Amusement gone. He leans forward, one hand braced on the back of the front seat.
“What did you see?”
“Two cars, maybe three. One’s familiar.”
Anton’s voice goes flat. “How familiar?”
The man’s gaze cuts to me briefly, then back to him. “Maks’s side. I know one of the drivers.”
Everything inside me drops. Anton turns to the driver. “Lose the cleaner route.”
“We’ll burn time.”
“Do it anyway.”
The car jerks hard right, throwing me against him. His arm comes around me on instinct, one hand bracing my shoulder, his mouth near my temple as the sedan tears off the path he planned and into something messier.
“Head down,” he says, and this time, I do it.