Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(110)

I looked up. He wasn't kidding.

My jaw dropped. I'd spent so much time in Chicago with its light pollution that I wasn't used to a country sky. Stars, galaxies, and a fat harvest moon hung above us like bright ornaments, so breathtaking I forgot I was here as a prisoner, not a guest. The heady illusion lasted about five seconds.

“Take a good long look,” he said. “It's f*cking beautiful up here at night.”

When my captivity came back, it was twice as bitter. I pursed my lips and looked at him. “You can't control how I think or feel. I'm smarter than you give me credit for.”

“You really think I believe you're a f*cking bimbo, babe?” Anton snorted. “I know a thing or two about the blood that's in your veins. Even if I believed you were a spoiled little bitch, totally ignorant about everything your family's done, no f*cking way would I call you stupid or gullible. Your clan's always been cunning. Smart. Sophisticated in a way us Russian bastards aren't.”

I rolled my eyes. Was this really supposed to be flattering?

Big mistake. The instant the eye roll was over, Anton was on me, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me into him. I squirmed for a few molten seconds in his arms, and then settled, surrendering to the huge, hot, heavily tattooed chest hiding beneath his button shirt.

“I showed you the shit on that tablet because I want to earn your trust the honest way. I can't force you to do shit if every part of you wants to sabotage me. I want you to want the same shit I do, babe. I want it pumping in your own heart because it's meant to, not because some other bastard's bullying you. I want you on my side. Right down to the second we shovel your * uncle into his grave.”

That did it. The dreamy heat swirling through me broke apart in his icy eyes. I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, holding me so I couldn't.

“I don't trust you, Anton. I don't trust anything here, anything you've said. I don't think I ever will.”

“Sit down with me.” Without giving me a choice, he pulled me towards a little table with two chairs next to the starry sky.

I sat and instantly gave him another glare. I hated what he was doing to me with every touch. I felt so empty without his fingers on my skin, and I didn't understand why, couldn't understand anything except that it was so wrong.

“Tell me about the night your old man died.”

I blinked in surprise. Another manipulation. Has to be. He wants me to talk about something upsetting so he can come swooping in like the big, bad hero.

I promised myself I wouldn't crack. I wouldn't flinch about it either. I stiffened my heels on the floor and leaned forward.

“What? You haven't read up on it yourself?”

“Of course I have,” he snapped. “You see the kinda shit we Ivankovs dig into to confirm our own intel. It was all there on the f*cking tablet. Documents and second hand stories never compare to the shit you see first hand. It can't capture what raw emotion can. It can't tell me what you saw with your own two eyes. Tell me what you remember.”

Five years melted before my eyes. I took a deep breath, remembering that night, when I walked in on my dead father at our condo. It was worse than when mama died because at least I'd never seen her broken, crumpled up body on the street.

No matter how many years passed, every time the memory came flooding back, it hurt.

“He was slumped on the sofa. I'd been out late with a couple friends when I came home,” I said quietly. “Papa was a mess since my mother died, but it was getting really bad that winter. Uncle Gioulio came by the week before it happened. They were arguing so loud I heard it from my room upstairs. I think he slapped my father around, trying to knock some sense into him – anything he could do short of forcing him into rehab...”

Anton's face tightened when I mentioned my uncle. “Go on.”

“He was already cold when I rushed over and touched him. I knew he was dead the second my fingertips brushed his cold brow. Didn't want to believe it, of course. I was only seventeen. I don't care if I was basically a grown woman by that point. It's never easy becoming an orphan at any age.”

Slow, thick heartbeats pulsed blood through my ears. Anton's eyes were darker, calmer, almost understanding. Both his parents were dead too.

Great. I caught myself. The last thing I wanted was any understanding, any common link with this man, but there it was.

He reached across the table and grasped my hand. Of course, my skin melted all over again, and I leaned back in the chair and sighed, letting him draw the sadness away with his touch.

“You've gotta give me more. Was there anything coming out of his mouth? Did he vomit?”

What the f*ck? I jerked my hand away, wrinkling my nose.

“Why do you care? He ODed just like I told you. I'm not an expert on what happens to junkies when they...yeah, I think there was some foam. Lots of blood dried around his nostrils, his lips...a few splashes hit his white shirt and stained it red. It was awful. I got the hell away from him as soon as I could and called Uncle Gioulio. He was there right away. He helped me through the whole thing.”

Ouch. No matter how hard I tried to keep a lid on the pain, it started overflowing. I broke the death gaze with Anton and looked out the window, staring over the high trees into the stars.

“Blood?” He paused, waiting for me. “You'd better look at me right now, babe, because you just confirmed it's as f*cked up as I thought.”