I grip the wheel tighter. The fuck does she know? Owning that bakery is my goddamn dream, and I’ll be fucked if I let her talk shit about it or me.
Except I’m sure as fuck not going to talk to her. From the way she’s looking at me and the tone in her voice, me talking to her is exactly what she wants, and I won’t give her the satisfaction, or the advantage.
She keeps going. “I don’t know who you are. But I know you’re not just some nice, flour-dusted baker who has a right hook that could break a man’s skull.”
I glance at her. “You talk too much.”
She shrugs. “I like to figure people out.”
I scoff. “Good luck with that.”
I make a hard turn onto a deserted road; the tires biting into the gravel, kicking up rocks like ricocheting bullets. We're getting closer to my destination, to the place where I plan to dump Ricky's sorry ass — an old cabin that I found not long after I came to this godforsaken place. It's the kind of spot no one looks for and no one cares about, buried in a patch of scrubby trees and overgrown pastureland filled with bushes where the scrub is so tall and scraggly that it looks like a collection of skeletal fingers each reaching to grip and pull you to your final rest. I like the place. It might have been broken down all to hell when I found it, but the bones were good, and that's all that mattered. Put in some elbow grease, a few cans of paint, a few cans of bug spray, and now it’s my home a home. It's quiet out there, too, which is its own damn advantage. That sick joke called Boise is far enough away that I can actually breathe, and the shed behind it is just right for stashing woman-beating bastards like Ricky until they get their shit together.
Bianca shifts beside me, stirring the air with a defiant energy. “What are you going to do to him?” Her voice is sharper now, more insistent, like she's trying to cut right through me and pull out an answer. I wonder if she's asking to protect him or to appease that Moretti conscience of hers.
I exhale, a slow, measured breath meant to keep my temper leashed. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I shoot her a hard look, but she’s unfazed, her hazel eyes locked on mine like she’s got the upper hand and knows it.
“That’s all you’re getting,” I say. So what if she’s stubborn? I’m stubborn, too. Maybe more than her. But I have a bad feeling that what we’re about to find out is that there’s more than one way to be stubborn, and she’s got more than one trick up her sleeve.
She leans toward me, her scent catching me off guard, vanilla and heat and something that doesn’t belong anywhere near me. A warm, heart-stirring invasion, more dangerous than anything else she could throw my way.
Her voice drops to a lower, more serious pitch. “If you kill him, I’ll make your life miserable.” I don’t know if that’s a promise or a threat or if there’s even a difference, but it doesn’t matter. Her words sound like a vow, and I believe her — she’s already making me miserable.
I roll my eyes, a sharp wave of frustration cutting through me.
“If I wanted him dead, he’d be dead already.” I focus on the road, ignoring the way her presence fills the car, ignoring how much of a goddamn distraction she is.
She studies me in silence. There’s a flicker in her eyes, a moment where she seems hesitant, like she’s not as certain about her read on me as she’s been claiming to be. I see it, the split second where she wants to believe me, and then it’s gone before I can even register how much I want to give her that reassurance, and how much I resent that I care.
The cabin looms through the trees, the road narrows as we get closer, while the wheels crunch over dirt and gravel. The sun sits high, painting the scene in bright light and warmth that makes even this rundown place look like a picture-perfect postcard, though it sure as shit isn’t. The old place sits like a waiting animal, crouched, ready, its dark windows watching us arrive.
I park outside and put the car in park, then turn to her slowly.
“This is your last chance.” My voice is low, even. Final.
She lifts her chin, unshaken. “No.”
“You want no part of this. This doesn’t concern you. And that piece of shit back there might’ve killed you earlier. If you have one fucking lick of sense in that pretty head of yours, get the fuck out of here.”
She doesn’t move.
She just holds my gaze, unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere. And if you want me to leave, you better be ready for a fight.”
Chapter Six
Bianca
The cold bite of metal snaps around my wrist, swift and merciless, before I even register what’s happening. One second I'm free; the next, I'm a prisoner in Caleb’s car. Disbelief turns my body rigid as I yank at the handcuffs, the steel implacable against my skin. I stare at them in shock, then at the steering wheel where the other end is locked tight, holding me captive. My outrage flares, hot and indignant.
“What the—” I sputter, voice choked with disbelief.
Caleb straightens, dusting off his hands like he just finished some tedious chore.
“Fine, be that way,” he mutters, then leans against the open door, smirking down at me. “You want to sit and pout in my car, then fine, be that way. But you better get comfortable, sweetheart, because you’re going to be waiting here a long time while I do what I need to do.”
