Page 70 of Ruthless Love

“Wedding night jitters?” he asks, delivering both a threat and a few hours’ pardon in the same depraved tone. “You’ll be my own wedding gift. I can’t wait,” he says, tracing a finger down my neck. “Can’t wait to break whatever fight there is left in you.”

When his fingers viciously pinch the wound, the pain pushes a wave of nausea so strong, I bend over and unleash it with all my might, square onto his Dormeuil slacks and Brunello Cucinelli shoes. Both the despicable man and his atrocious clash in luxury styles are an affront to all my senses.

“Fucking bitch!” He lashes out, grabbing my arm in the vise grip of his hand.

My cries are loud and pleading. And pointless.

“Antonov!” My father’s voice surprises me, booming with a strength I was sure he’d lost.

Somehow, the bastard managed to grow a pair and speak up. And as much as I hate every bone in his entitled, elitist body, hearing that is a relief.

“Let her go, you idiot,” he says as he moves with remarkable speed toward us.

Dimitri snarls at him. “Did you just call me an idiot?”

“I believe I did,” he says, pushing his way between us to meet Dimitri eye to eye. “I’m not sure what sort of media will be here for your nuptials, but take it from the TV man, your wedding will have the latest in high-definition coverage. Haven’t you heard the term ‘ugly in HD’? All those fancy cameras will capture everything from beads of sweat to tooth decay. This little number you did on Evelyn could be seen from the goddamn space shuttle. How about we work on less bruising and more makeup for her big day, eh, comrade?”

Dimitri takes the suggestion in stride, simmering his snarl to a lethal grin before he looks down to assess the damage to his shoes and slacks. “We both know what media will be here for the nuptials, don’t we, Garrett?” His dark expression meets mine. “See you at the altar.”

As he steps past the puddle of puke, the snap of his finger has Alexei following behind.

My father wraps his arm around me, steadying my shaky knees. His renewed strength is the only thing holding me up at the moment. “A little fresh air will perk you back up,” he says, leading me down the hall, through the library, and outside through a back door I’ve never used.

Gray clouds crowd the skies, and the breeze reminds me of Austin. I stumble down the grand stairs separating the stately mansion from the vast grounds. A few more steps, and I’m being lowered on a stone bench as Garrett, the man I’ve only known as my father, sits beside me.

His fingers lift my chin, giving him better light as he turns me and takes his time examining every line of my face and neck. “Here,” he says, tugging the white cotton handkerchief from his pocket, and wipes what has to be vomit from my face.

In disbelief, anger, and hurt, I stare at him, harboring so many feelings at once, there’s no way for them to release except through the burden of warm, heavy tears.

“We don’t have much time, Evelyn,” he says, not really looking at me, but past me back toward the mansion.

For what? Too exhausted to say a word, I merely sit and listen.

“You have to know, I never meant for it to go this far. I—”

“You’re what? You might not be my father, which explains why to this day you’re still pimping me out to save the Banks name, but I do know you. Have known you for twenty-seven years. And whoever the hell you are, you’re not the type of guy to suddenly grow a conscience. So, spit it out. What does he have on you? Bribes? Hookers?”

“Worse.” Garrett sucks in a breath as the tips of his fingers trace through my hair.

It’s something he’s done for a very long time, as long as I can remember. Sometimes, it was the only way he could calm a hysterical child. But looking in his eyes, I can see how much it’s calming him too.

“Alan killed a man,” he says in a strained voice.

Wide-eyed, I say nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“A hit and run. Back then, I had enough money and clout to make it vanish. But somehow, Antonov found it. Dug it up. Between the bribes and the cover-up—”

“He’s looking at life?” I say flatly, for no other reason than I’m drained of absolutely everything except the lawyer shouting out from deep in my head. Garrett’s sullen nod means his own lawyers have told him as much. “When?”

“When what?”

“When did this happen?”

“Why does that matter?”

He’s stalling, probably because he knows no matter how he strokes my hair or pats my hand, or wipes my face like an infant with spit-up, I’m not letting go until my cross-examination is over.

Wrinkling his brow, he tosses out his recollection with the indifference of reciting the weather. “I don’t know. You were fourteen. Maybe fifteen.”

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