In those fucking clothes.
I’m still not over it.
“Don’t start,” I say.
She finally turns her head. Slow. Flat-eyed. “I wasn’t.”
Lie.
Everything about her right now is a fight waiting for somewhere to land.
I get out before I say something worse and walk around the front of the car. By the time I open her door, she’s already glaring at me like she’d rather bite than breathe.
“Out.”
“No.”
That fucking word.
I brace one hand on the top of the door and lean down enough to make it clear I’m done with this conversation before it starts.
“You are not doing this here.”
Her chin lifts. “Then let me go home.”
“Ivan will take you home.”
Her laugh is small and mean. “Your townhouse isn’t my home.”
Something in me goes hard at that.
I catch her wrist before she can pull away and haul her out of the seat.
She stumbles once on the gravel, then jerks against my grip immediately, trying to wrench free.
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
“Maksim—”
“No.” I slam the car door shut with my free hand and start steering her toward the front steps. “You’ve been fighting me since Russia. I’m tired, Beda. Save it.”
She digs her heels in for half a second.
I stop and look down at her. Really look.
Hair a mess from dragging her hands through it all day. Mouth set. Eyes bright with anger she still hasn’t spent. And those clothes. The Amatos are going to meet her in tatters. Not mine. Not matching.
She looks like she’s trying to crawl back into the version of herself that existed before me.
Too late.
“You want to do this on the lawn?” I ask quietly.
Her nostrils flare.
Then she yanks her arm once more, sharp and furious, and when I don’t let go, she finally starts walking.
