"Liar." He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "You came so hard you could barely stand. You loved how my cock felt inside of you.”
“You don’t know it was real?—”
"I can prove it." His other hand slides down, resting on my hip. "Right now. I can prove that you're lying."
My breath catches. "Don't?—"
"Why not?" His lips brush against my neck, and I feel my body respond despite everything, heat flooding through me as I feel his large body lean in against mine, his finger wrapping around my hip. "Afraid I'll be right?"
I can feel how wet I am already. If he touches me?—
"I hate you." The words come out breathless and entirely unconvincing.
"I know." His hand tightens on my hip. "But you still want me."
"I don't?—"
"You do." His mouth moves to my jaw, a brush of lips against skin that makes my knees weak. "You hate that you want me, butyou do. You hate that your body responds to me, but it does. You hate that I make you feel things you don't want to feel, but?—"
I shove him away with all my strength. He stumbles back a step, surprise flickering across his face.
"Don't touch me." My voice is shaking, but I force the words out. "Don't ever fucking touch me again."
"Svetlana—"
"I hate you," I repeat, backing toward the hallway and in the direction of what I think is the guest bedroom. "I hate you for what you did. I hate you for bringing me here. I hate you for?—"
“For trying to help you?” His gaze is dark, that heat that I remember from the safe house burning there, and I need to get away from it.
"For making everything worse!" The words burst out of me. "Everything was fine until you?—"
"Fine?" He stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. "You call living in that shithole fine?"
"It was better than this!"
"Was it?" He crosses his arms over his broad, muscled chest. "Was it really better, Svetlana? Or are you just scared?"
"I'm not scared of you."
"I didn't say you were scared of me." He shrugs. "I said you were scared. Of this. Of the fact that despite everything, despite all the reasons you should hate me, you still?—"
"Stop." I hold up a hand. "Just stop."
For once, he finally fucking shuts up. But he doesn’t stop looking at me, his gaze holding mine. We stand there in the hallway, the tension between us so thick I can barely breathe.
"I'm going to bed," I say finally. "And tomorrow, I'm leaving."
"No, you're not."
"You can't keep me here."
"Watch me." His voice is flat and final. "You're not leaving until I know you're safe. Until I know the baby is safe. Until?—"
"Until what? Until you decide I'm allowed to have my own life again?"
"Until you stop being so goddamn stubborn and accept that you need help."
"I don't need your help." I turn and walk toward the guest bedroom. "I don't need anything from you."
