Taken By the Bratva Boss by Sarina Hart

Chapter Nine

Leon

I’m a fool. I kissed her. A fucking fool. I don’t have time for women in my life. One-night stands, yes. Relationships like the one Olivia Hudson will expect—probably already expects—are out of the question.

And not only did I kiss her, but I also poured my heart out like I was on an episode of Dr. fucking Phil. All I’d planned to do was explain how important it is that she be careful with Anna’s heart, do what she can to distance herself because it’s only been a few days, but Anna is too attached. And she’s lost enough already.

But instead, I kissed her. Told her my sad sob story about Igor and Anna. Pathetic. And not my usual MO. Any other woman, I’d have had her naked and on her back before the towel hit the ground.

It’s been a little while since I had the time for a woman. Between nutty nannies and this incessant war with the Irish, if I don’t do something soon, my balls are going to explode.

But I want her to come to me, willing, to walk across my floor, strip off the sheer robe my mind has dressed her in and kneel in front of me, run her tongue from base to tip along the vein.

I give my cock a stroke, just enough to ease the pain of all this pent-up lust. But it’s not enough. My cock needs attention and Olivia. It needs Olivia. Her mouth. Her slick tongue, the light glide of her teeth while she sucks.

Oh, fuck it. I need this. One stroke isn’t going to do it. I need more. My cock is straining, my balls tight.

She’s beautiful. I close my eyes and imagine her lying on my bed, legs spread in front of me, her pussy beautiful and glistening. Her husky voice is begging for my cock, but I want a taste first. She’ll be sweet and salty, tight around my tongue.

I want to tongue-fuck her, finger her while I flick my tongue back and forth over her clit, kiss my way up her body and plunge my cock into her when she’s already at the edge. I want to feel her pussy clench around me and pulse with her desire.

On the thought, I explode, riding my hand and imagining her on top of me.

Dear God.

I need to get laid. More now than before.

I’ve been with women. Beautiful women. And I’ve never come like that with any of them. Not where I’m crying out her name, where I want to hold her while we sleep, where I can’t catch my breath because every thought of her robs me of it.

It’s a good thing she pushed me away when she did. I don’t know that her body is prepared for all the ways I want her. And I don’t know if mine is either.

By morning, I’ve slept like a baby and I’m ready for the day. There’s a zip in my step and a smile on my face. I’m going to stick around long enough for breakfast with the girls before I’m off to work.

And they don’t disappoint. Olivia and Anna are already at the table, a spread fit for royalty in front of them while they laugh, and Anna tells another knock-knock joke.

“Who’s there?”

“Alby.” Anna grins at me. I’ve heard this one a time or two.

“Alby who?”

Her giggle is like music. “Alby seeing you later.” And she slides out of her seat and under the table only to pop up a second later. “Told you so!”

Olivia reaches for her and pulls Anna onto her lap to tickle her as I walk fully into the room. “Good morning, Uncle Leon.”

“Good morning, my love.” I glance at Olivia because I can’t not look at her. My eyes won’t allow it. “Good morning, Olivia.”

Her skin is a ruddy shade of red, and she hasn’t looked up from her plate since I pulled out the chair across from her and sat. “Good morning.”

I can’t decide if she muttered or mumbled, but this Olivia is quite different from the one in the pool last night and the one who’d helped me out after.

“I trust you slept well.”

Her cheeks darken. “Fine.” She blows out a breath and digs for her courage. But finally, she looks up at me, the guilt in her eyes almost as visible as her cheeks. A warning flag billows in my mind. But she runs her tongue over her lips and my dick twitches. “You?”

I smile. The memory of the woman in my fantasy of her is like a devil on my shoulder, calling me back to the bedroom for round two. “I slept like a log.”

She nods.

“Are you and Anna painting again today?”

And like it’s her cue to take over the conversation, Anna shifts so she’s kneeling on the chair, and she slaps both hands on the table. “Yes, sir. I love watercolors.” And she’s adamant and excited and it’s been a long time—if ever—that I’ve seen such a light in her eyes.

“Watercolors, huh?” It sparks an idea. “Well, if you pay attention to Olivia and be very good, I might have a surprise for you later.”

She claps because she’s five years old, and if she isn’t clapping and happy, she’s pouting and whining. I love clapping and happy. “I’ll be so good you’ll think I disappeared.”

And she slips under the table again.

Olivia smiles and shrugs a shoulder.

God, she’s beautiful. Fresh-faced and smiling, she’s like a goddess. “After breakfast, we can go to the office and make that call you asked about.”

She nods and smiles. But it’s not bright. Not as vibrant as a moment ago with Anna. Giving her the call has only reminded her that she’s here because I won’t allow her to leave. Because I can’t risk it until I know who she’s working for if anyone.

Although it’s less likely every day she’s here because no one is looking for her. I have feelers out. Men on the street listening for anyone searching for a missing woman. And there hasn’t been a single report.

When Anna pops up from under the table, Olivia pretends to be startled and lets her head loll to the side.

“Oh, no, Uncle Leon. She needs mouth to mouth recuperation. Hurry!” Olivia’s eyes pop open but Anna is staring at me.

“The hero always saves the pretty girl.” And this was Olivia’s choice. Maybe she planned it. And I shouldn’t push my chair back.

Before I get to her, she sits up, but Anna, God bless her beautiful little soul, puts her mouth into the pout that I can’t resist either, and Olivia shoots me a huffy sigh with her look and her head falls again.

But her lips are clamped tightly shut, and I grin. “In the fairy tales,” I tell Anna, who is holding Olivia’s hand to her bowed head and pretending to cry, “it’s a magic kiss that wakes up the princess.”

She sucks in a breath and waits while I tilt Olivia’s head up and stroke my thumbs over her cheekbones. Without the chlorine, she smells like lavender and jasmine, and I take a breath before I brush my lips over her cheek.

She springs up, and her head bumps my chin. “All better. Look at me. Wide awake, heart ticking like a champ.”

“Uncle Leon’s kisses are magic.”

I smile at her. Every tingle and rush I’m feeling is written on her face. “I don’t think this one was me, Anna.”

Olivia’s smile shoots through my guts. It’s potent and delicious and the thoughts in my head don’t belong at breakfast with Anna, but damn. My brain isn’t under my control anymore.

I clear my throat like I can clear the thoughts away so easily. But my mind is spinning. Images of Olivia. Naked images of Olivia. My mind is filling in blanks where I have no business seeing.

Shit.

Anna giggles and Olivia stares. I said it out loud?

“Everything okay?” Her voice is more potent than a blue fucking pill and it goes straight to my dick.

How is this possible? I control my cock. I cannot be hard for this woman. She’s the one who accused me of rape. Probably works for the Irish or the Italians. She’s also the woman I jerked off to this morning. And if this keeps up, I’m going to need a few more minutes alone.

“Fine. It’s fine.” I can be all business.

Should be all business.

Why the fuck am I not all business?

“When you’re finished here, you can come to my office and make the call we discussed.” I can’t even look at her. And I sound like I just ate a mouthful of marbles and stone.

Even a glance at her is a mistake considering I can’t make my dick get with the program, but my brain and my dick seem to be working together. I glance. Then look. And now I’m staring.

Fuck. It’s her smile. And the hair. The eyes. The memory of that fucking one piece swimsuit that might have very well been designed for a nun.

“I’m finished now.” She turns to Anna. “We are going to finish painting the garden as soon as I’m done.”

Anna smiles at Olivia like Olivia created the idea of art. “Can I get everything ready?”

Olivia nods. “But don’t touch the paints until I get there.”

She’s so good with Anna and it’s doing things to me. Making me forget my game plan. My purpose. That I hate her and what she did to me. God dammit.

I push my chair back and we walk to my office, side by side. Together. All that’s missing is the hand holding. The cuddle. This has to stop.

We walk into the office, and I nod to the phone. “There.”

I say the word like she can’t see the phone, like she can’t guess where I would keep it.

But she smiles up at me. And in my head, I’ve never seen a more beautiful smile. I have to get this fiasco worked out. I need to make sure my name is cleared and get her the fuck out of here. Before I can’t come back from whatever this is.

She picks up the receiver and dials while I move to the desk. There are papers and files within eyesight that she doesn’t need to see. Routes. Faked invoices.

I pull out my chair and sit while she winds the phone cord around her finger. Unwinds it. Winds it again. And I’m watching.

I shake it off again. Because shaking it off is all I seem to be able to manage and it gives me a moment of clarity before I look at her again and lose it.

I pull the files in close. She couldn’t have seen much but the tabs that are written in Russian. And unless she somehow manages to put all the pieces together, she won’t know what she’s looking at anyway.

“Jacob.” Her voice is urgent, but there’s a note of relief that makes it brighter, happier than I’ve ever heard her except when she’s talking to Anna. “I’m fine. I’m really fine.” She glances at me from the opposite side of my desk, and I look down like I’ve been caught watching her.

She listens for a few seconds and turns, then lowers her voice, but I still hear her say, “Yeah. He’s helping me find out who raped Denice.” Long pause. “Yes, I know, but it’s not him. He didn’t rape Denice.” That’s good to hear. “Witnesses are wrong sometimes.” Another silence on her end punctuated by a huff. “Maybe. Maybe three witnesses got it wrong. People know him. His picture is in the paper sometimes. Maybe it was that day and they saw him and it’s association by some sort of news article.” Even her whisper warms my gut. “Yeah. That’s a real thing.” She’s biting the words now and, in a whisper, there isn’t a sound I’ve ever heard that’s sexier.

She turns, and I look down like I wasn’t eavesdropping, and she spins again. “Yeah. I know what the cops said.”

Today she’s wearing a burgundy knit shirt with a pair of green pants that, though she has plenty of room, enhance her figure, the gentle curve of her hip, the deceptively long legs.

“They’re wrong.”

And now she’s fighting for me. With Jacob. Who may or may not be her boyfriend.

I don’t do jealousy. I get what I want, and I keep it until I’m finished with it.

And I’m so fucking jealous right now. My fingers curl around a file folder and it’s one that’s not going to fit nicely into the shredder anymore. But I can’t stand the sweetness in her lowered voice.

I don’t listen to her wrap up the call because I have a life. My own fucking life where I can go get laid if I want. Any time I want. I don’t need a woman who thinks I’m a damned rapist.

The part of my brain that isn’t or maybe is controlled by my simpering dick is always there chirping, reminding me she’d said she doesn’t think I’m a rapist. The rapist.

“Shut up.”

Again, I’ve spoken aloud, and her head snaps up. She tilts her head, eyes me with those big hazel eyes and her lips parted, the phone receiver by her chin, slipping down to her chest while we stare at each other.

“Obviously, I wasn’t talking to you.”

I need her out of here. I have things to do. Things not here and she needs to go. I swallow whatever this ridiculous reaction to her is and I nod toward the door. “If you’re finished…”

She nods, pulls her lower lip between her teeth. Because I, too, want to nibble that lower lip, I nod to the door again. I don’t speak. Speaking would be asinine since all I can think of is how to get her to go along with aforementioned nibbling.

I’ve got to get out of here. Clear my head of all things Olivia.

I follow her to the door and lock it behind me.

Watching her walk away is the most ridiculous waste of my time, but I do it because I can’t not do it. She takes three steps and turns. “Thank you for letting me call Jacob.”

“Thank you for telling him I didn’t rape your friend.” It doesn’t matter that I’ve admitted listening to her call, but she’s in my house, my office, making a call on my phone as my “guest.” Her expectations of privacy, if she has any, are unreasonable.

She folds her arms and nods. “He’s her brother, and he deserves the truth. His family, her family deserves the truth.” Olivia has those big blinking eyes pointed at me. “And you didn’t do it.”

“No, I didn’t.” I don’t have time to go over the evidence right now. There are too many mysteries in my life and too many things I have to see to. Now isn’t the time to hold Olivia’s hand, but God help me, I want to. “I have to go.”

“Okay.”

I turn and walk away. To the garage.

Adrian walks out behind me. “You ready, Leon?”

Of course, I’m ready. I have shit to do that doesn’t involve the woman I’ve invited—forced—to stay in my house. Real life shit.

I follow Adrian out the side door to the car Timur is waiting in. I climb in the back because it makes Adrian happy. He’s convinced, if I’m going to be shot by an Irishman, they’ll come at me from the front. So, I never sit in the front when I’m with Adrian.

Timur pulls away before he speaks. “Irish are on the move today. Gun shipment came in at the dock.”

“We have men on it?” This isn’t the kind of thing I oversee. It’s dual protection for me. From the danger of being caught by the cops. And from the exposure to the Irish who, if they’re like me, would anticipate a higher up overseeing the operation. I have promised ten thousand dollars to any man who can bring me the head—in the most literal sense—of Connor McGrath.

“Yeah. Maxim and Alexei have their men waiting.” Adrian looks at me over his shoulder. “Flinn wants a meet with you.”

Flinn is one of Connor’s top men. He knows the operation. Knows things I need to know to put Connor McGrath out of the game. I need this meet as much as Flinn.

Adrian setting it up makes him golden. The man.

If we weren’t in a car on our way to God knew where, I might’ve hugged him. Maybe later.

“You make progress on the other assignment?” It’s a private project I’ve assigned to Timur. I want to know who killed my mother, to be able to look him in the eye as I kill him slowly. And I will find him and have my revenge because the image of that day—the masked men raping my mother while Igor and I were hiding because we were seven—is burned into my brain. Is probably the reason I’ve lost them all—my mother, my father, Igor. Probably the reason Igor was so fucked up when he died.

Timur shakes his head. “It’s slow going, boss. Been twenty years.”

Yes. Twenty long years of my cowardice. Of my fear of facing those memories.

“Tell him the other part.”

I look from Adrian to Timur. Timur is older, wiser from experience, but if I ever have to pick a man to stand beside me in a fight or a battle, Adrian would be the guy I pick. Every time. But Timur has his uses, and he collects information. Figures out how I can best use it. I trust him with secrets.

“Yes, Timur, tell me the other part.” I don’t expect much will come of it.

He nods to neither one of us. It’s a quirk that means he’s about to talk about something he doesn’t want to. Since he’s my information man, and we do things that make him uncomfortable, I see the look often. Nearly every time we’re together.

We take a left on Commerce and stay on it for a few blocks before he starts talking. “Right before the…incident with your mom…”

I don’t appreciate the delicacy of his words. It doesn’t deaden my hatred or my horror at what I’ve seen or what I know. “Incident?” Adrian turns to look at me and shrugs. “Incident. Go on.”

“Right before the incident, there was a bombing. Car bomb.” He bobs his head from one side to the other. “Killed a mother and her infant. They were waiting for the father of the child to bring out the other child.” I didn’t usually permit such drama, but Timur is helping me. He can tell the story, and I’ll listen. “The man watched what was left of his daughter and his wife burn. And the whole time he knew the bomb was meant for him.”

“Who was it?”

“Well, the last name of the father was McGrath. Damon McGrath and his six-and-a-half-year-old son watched the car burn.” He paused. “His sixteen-year-old son met them at the hospital.”

McGrath? Fucking Connor McGrath? If there was anyone I wanted to be responsible so I could kill him, it was Connor McGrath.

My breathing is shallow and my guts twist. Connor McGrath. “Who set the car bomb?” If that’s the car bomb responsible for my mother’s death and the Irish vendetta, then I’ll kill that bastard, too. Not for McGrath but because actions against my family have consequences. “What makes you think this is relative to what happened to my mother?”

I’ve never spoken about the project out loud before except with Timur, although Adrian knows about it. It’s too late to take the words back.

I don’t care because the next words…

“The bomb was set by Fyedore Andreyev.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Fyedore Andreyev was my father’s underboss before he was killed. He died only days before my father was shot to death.

I take a minute to digest, to let the information seep into my skull. When it does, I want to roar. I want to tear the fucking doors off their hinges. I want to kill someone, feel life drain, smell the blood. I want death.

But I am not an impatient man. When I was a boy, my father taught me the value of anticipation. He set a piece of candy on a table and told me to wait two days and I could have the candy, and it would taste better because I waited. I walked by that table ten times a day. At least. That piece of candy was there. I sat and stared at it. Until the end of the second day. My father gave me the candy. It tasted the same, but my father was proud of me. He said that was the moment he knew it was going to be me and not Igor who would take over.

“The switch was Fyedore’s. Cops identified it.”

“You saw the file?” His reach is expanding.

“The file, no. I saw the switch.” He shrugs. “A photo.”

As if that’s the same thing.

“Timur?” I won’t kill him, but I’ll kick his ass. In the last three blocks, I’ve run the emotional obstacle course. I don’t take it lightly.

“I’ve studied Andreyev’s work. It was his.” He nods, certain enough he brought me the information. That says something.

“I need a hacker. Someone who can get me the police file. I need the case file.”

Timur nods, but Adrian is the guy who will make that happen. Of that, I’m certain,

Before the dissection of information can occur, the cell phone in my pocket rings. The answer to another mystery—who Olivia is working for—waits at the other end of the call.

I slide my finger across the screen. “Larry.”

“Leon.” His pauses are short and usually necessary. “I’ve checked on Olivia Hudson. I can’t find any connection to the Irish or the Italians or even to any of the other Russian families. She’s not gang affiliated. She’s not got any sort of criminal past I can find. No aliases. Has ninety-eight dollars in a checking account and four hundred in savings.”

“All right. Anything else?” I don’t expect much from him. Not in regard to Olivia.

“She worked with the Millers and their son Jacob to pay Victoria.”

I couldn’t fault the Millers if they were told it was me. I can’t even fault Olivia or Victoria. But the name Jacob keeps coming up in ways I don’t like at all. Ways that connect him to Olivia.

“What about the witnesses?”

Larry sighs. “That’s the thing, Leon. They’re dead.”

“Dead?” No one has a better reason than I do to want them dead—or to want them alive.

“Dead. One car accident. One suicide. One disappearance after a night of partying and an abandoned car means presumed dead. To the cops anyway.” Larry charges the same for good news or bad news, so I can’t fault him for delivering it in the same monotone of boredom.

“So maybe my imposter is trying to cover his tracks?” Larry deals in all kinds of news, but only in facts. Things he can verify or spin into what he needs them to be, but facts. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even acknowledge.

“Do you want me to keep digging?”

Yes, I want to know everything he can tell me about Olivia Hudson, everything there is to know.

I smile, picture her, smile wider because I’m picturing her. “No. I’ll find out what I need to know.” The uptick in my heart rate has nothing to do with my knowing the way her lips taste, the exact amount of pressure I need to use to get her to open her mouth for me, how to press her into me so she moans into my mouth.

What I don’t know is why the fuck I can’t get her out of my head. Why I can’t get my head out of my fucking pants.

Adrian glances at me, faces front then glances at me again. “You all right, Leon?”

I nod. I’m all right. Mostly.

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at me again as we get to the dock and watch my men take the shipment right from under the nose of the Irish who are waiting, oblivious, next to their warehouse. The truck isn’t coming. Someone should tell them, but it won’t be my men. My men will be busy delivering the weapons to our bunker.

I can smell the money. My guys have neutralized the Irish escorts who were guarding the shipment. I have a truckload of guns I can sell. Pure profit. And I have Olivia Hudson at home waiting for me. Well, not for me, but in my house. Today is a good day.

It’s early when I get home, and I’m happy because today went so well. Money making. Detail finding. Good. At least until the car is all the way in the drive. Maxim is waiting and he is never a bearer of goodness. He’s dark and dangerous, the kind of guy no one wants to see in an alley. A guy who shoots first and asks questions later. Usually after the hole is dug and the body is rolled in. This is the guy you want in the alley on your side. If he’s on the other side, it’s run-like-hell time.

I climb out and face him. “We caught intruder.” As an English speaker, he needs improvement; he’s fluent in Russian but tries not to use it so his English can improve. He came to the States a year ago, and has been my right hand, right behind Adrian. And my left. Maxim is another hired gun, but he’s one who would rather use his fists. And I let him. “I put him in rope in dungeon.”

It’s hardly a dungeon but I don’t bother correcting him. I follow him to the basement entrance. “Who is he?”

Maxim doesn’t know the words, so I ask him in Russian, and he turns at the last step. “I don’t know.”

The light in the basement is dim, but I would know the kid sitting in the chair anywhere. I’d looked at him day after day after day during the trial. The guy had a glare, but powerful as it was, it was all he had.

Jacob Miller. Scrawny. A kid.

I walk up to him and stand, arms crossed, feet apart, a tower of anger and rage. This prick tried to break into my house.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Sitting.”

And he was cocky. I backhand him for his arrogance. “Yes? Why are you sitting here, in my basement?” It’s only fair to provide clarity to the little dumbass.

He turns away, like I’m not worth looking at. I can’t allow the insolence, so I take his face between my fingers and squeeze, use the butt of my palm to push into his nose and the tips of my fingers to dig into his temples. I put my weight and strength behind it then shove him back when I think he’s had enough.

“What the fuck do you want here?”

The little shit shakes his head. This time I step back and nod at Adrian. He takes a turn and punches the kid in the gut. He has no restraint, but it’s better than letting Max at him. Max kills first. It’s easier for him to ask forgiveness in Russian than permission in English. He’s a weapon I keep in reserve.

“Answer Mr. Krilov.”

Instead, the kid looks up. “Leon Krilov.” And he spits. In my house. The disrespect is intolerable. Bull shit. Punishable by death. But I hold back because of all the calls Olivia could’ve asked to make, she had picked this kid to call.

I do the quick math. Weigh the evidence. This kid is brother to Denice Miller. Denice Miller is—was friends with Olivia. Olivia is beautiful. Not even twenty-four hours after the phone call the beautiful woman could’ve made to anyone else in the world but made to him, he shows up at my house on his white fucking horse to rescue the damsel.

No matter what he says, it’s why he’s here.  Knowing it gives me the upper hand.

“You know she’s safe.”

He shakes his head. Uses his tongue to touch the corner of his mouth where it’s split and bleeding. “No one is safe with you.”

“And yet you come in”—I glance at Max who shakes his head—“without a weapon, to rescue her.” Adrian brings a chair and I take hold of the backrest, drag it to sit directly in front of the boy. I cross one leg over the other, toy with the ring on my little finger for a second, then smooth my palm over my pants leg from mid-thigh to knee. “Tell me your plan, because I’m curious.”

“I don’t have a plan.”

Courage and stupidity often held hands. “You came into my home.”

“Your apes brought me.” Defiant and stupid. Bad math no matter how I added it.

I ignored him and started again. “You came into my home without a weapon to rescue a woman who is here of her own accord and told you so earlier, Mr. Miller, and you have no plan.”

I sigh like I’m disappointed, but he’s the kind of kid I could mold into a valuable employee. Very valuable. It’s a thought for later.

Now, I have to deal with him on a less amicable basis.

“People who break into my house—”

“Again, your men brought me into your house.” He says it like I’m the one trying his patience.

Adrian smacks him with the back of his hand. “Show respect.”

I didn’t ask for that one, but I don’t mind that it happened.

“People who break into my house or try to and get caught”—I smile because this time I’ve nailed him on his error—“don’t often live to tell the tale.” I check my watch—a Patek Phillipe Grand—and then lower my sleeve to cover it again. “Do you want to live to tell the tale?”

Maxim grabs him by the back of his hair—too long, needs a cut—and jerks his head back, holds a knife to the space just below the kid’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

Still the kid doesn’t speak, but the door blasts open, and a small, angry woman stands in the doorframe.

“Let him go.” There is rage. I’ve seen it before. Fury is also an old acquaintance of mine. But what she’s spewing is next level. Flashing eyes. Fingers curled into white-knuckled fists. Teeth clenched.

Maxim didn’t move. I sat watching her, mesmerized. This was the hottest I’d ever seen a woman. Hot in anger. Hot in temperature. Hot in the most sexual way a woman could be.

“I can’t let him go. He broke into my house.”

“You brought me into your house.” The kid is still stupid. He has a knife to his throat and a timebomb holding the blade. Still he’s waving his dick around.

I shoot him a glare but turn my attention back to Olivia because there is a lot to see. She radiates power. A sensual kind of anger that would take us long into the night if I let it. And God help me, I want to let it.

She moves further into the room. Shoots Maxim a look so potent if he had any soul at all, he would back off. I keep him around because he’s soulless.

Nothing stops her. Not even the look Maxim shoots back. A leer really. One I want to kick his ass over.

After she moves between me and Jacob, she squats in front of him. She takes the pocket square—ridiculous as it is—from Maxim’s pocket and uses it to dab the corner of Jacob’s mouth where a line of blood trickles to his chin.

“Let him go.”

Maxim looks at me. I nod and he steps back, re-sheathing his knife.

She lays her hand on Jacob’s cheek, and I want to show her what real anger is. I’m not angry at her, though. I’m angry at myself because I can’t control these jealous feelings inside me.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” His head is tilted, and he’s so in love with her I can’t believe he has any pride left. I would shrivel if the woman I wanted saw me tied to a chair with blood on my face and no way of getting out alive without begging for it. “I tracked the caller ID when you…”

“That was stupid, Jacob. I told you I was okay.” Her voice is soft, and my guts turn completely green. I want that tone. It belongs to me.

“I thought maybe he was coercing you.” He’s so besotted. It’s almost cute. “Forcing you.”

“I know what coerced means, Jake.” She bites the words like she’s turned her anger toward him, and I almost miss the fire when she stands and turns to me. “Let him go.” Smaller. Quieter. “Please.”

“No.”

I want her to fight for it. To show me what she has inside her. And I’m perfectly content to sit here and wait for her to do it.