I don’t answer. My jaw and chest are too tight.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
We're sitting in a parking lot with two dead bodies in the trunk, and I’m staring at this woman like I’ve never seen one before.
I turn to stare out my side window while she uses the visor mirror to eliminate the blood on her face and neck. She hisses a tiny, pained breath as she skims the wound on her cheek, and the steering wheel creaks under my tightened grip. I fight the urge to pull the body from the trunk and do more damage.
“Better?” she asks quietly.
I look back.
Without the smeared makeup, she looks even younger. Fresh. Innocent.Tooyoung for the way my body is noticing her.
Blyat. I really am a depraved fuck.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
This is not the time, asshole, and certainly not fucking helpful.
My thickening cock doesn’t care.
“You’ll do,” I manage. “Nothing we can do about your bare feet. Just walk quickly. Not fast. Act like nothing’s wrong, and if you’re stopped—lie.”
“I can do that.” She swallows and nods.
The next few minutes pass in silence, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her chew her bottom lip. It’s a nervous gesture, but it does something unexpected to my pulse.
Finally, she blurts out the question I’ve been waiting for.
“Why are you helping me?”
Her voice is husky, and the bruises are already deepening across her windpipe. That bastard hurt her worse than I realized.
Should I take her to a hospital?
“Liev?” Sera whispers, eyes full of worry but strangely calm. “Why in the world would you help me? I just killed your father. You should hate me, and if not, turn me over to the police...” Her voice trails off. She knows who I am.WhatI am.
I start the car again and pull onto the road attempting to smother my anger enough to speak without scaring her. I can’t get the image of what my father’s hand wrapped around her throat must have looked like.
“Two reasons. One, he deserved to die. Long before tonight.”
I risk a glance at her. I should probably ask her exactly what happened, but I don’t really need to. I’ve known my father for thirty-five years, and I’m well aware of his attitude toward women.
They are to obey and be used as he sees fit. With force if necessary.
Her throat bobs, visible under the streetlamps we pass.
“I’ve wanted to kill him for years, but because of his position, I couldn’t without signing my death warrant.”
Silence stretches. “Because you’re both Russian mob.” A beat passes. “Bratva.”
I don’t bother answering.
“What’s number two?”
“You don’t deserve to die because of him.”
Her eyes go wide, breath catching in her throat.
