Page 23 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
“I am not,” I protest, because being called out on it makes me feel childish. And I definitely don’t want him prying into thewhyof the avoidance.
“You are,” he insists, moving to stand beside me. “And it’s only going to make things more awkward.”
“Then maybe you should let me go,” I fire back, keeping my eyes glued to the page in front of me. “And put a shirt on.”
He sets his coffee mug down on the railing beside me. I refuse to look up, watching his muscles flex from the corner of my eye. His arms are on either side of me, and if I lean back even a little, I’ll be pressed against his chest. “I can’t let you go untilwe know it’s safe,” he says patiently, ignoring the latter of my requests.
“But then?” I demand. “You’re just going to let me go free? You never did tell me why you kidnapped me in the first place.”
He’s close enough, dipping his head down toward my ear when he answers, that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. “Do you want me to let you go, Talia?”
I know he’s just trying to get under my skin, trying to piss me off because he seems to relish it when we argue, but the effect he’s having on me isn’t the one he’s expecting. It’s not the one I’m expecting, either. Pure lust boils through my body and pools between my legs in hot need. He hasn’t even touched me, but I know I’m already wet for him. Timofey is a monster, but my body doesn’t seem to care about that.
“Yes, obviously,” I say, tasting the lie on my tongue.
Can he taste it too? If I turn my head to the side right now, our lips would touch, and I don’t know if I have it in me to resist again. To pull away.
He laughs softly and pulls away. I try not to sigh. “Soon. I’ll let you go soon.”
Chapter 11 - Timofey
The lawnmower stutters and dies again as I pass over a dense clump of grass, choking the blade. This place is so overgrown. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit about that. The wildness is the point, part of what I like about this place. But now? It gives me something to do other than pace like a caged animal.
It’s not the hideout that’s making me feel that way, or being this far removed from the action in Miami, it’s Talia. She’s got me climbing out of my skin, and I don’t think she even knows it. The house has a single air conditioning unit in the bedroom, which means it’s steamy in there, regardless of how many fans I’ve got stuffed into the windows. Which means, Talia’s walking around in barely anything most of the time.
Even worse, somehow, is at night when she pulls one of my shirts and I know she’s got nothing on underneath. Just those toned legs disappearing into something I’ve worn and shit, that feels good. It feels like claiming her, in some way, even if it’s just her only option for clothing.
She seems comfortable here in a way she never did at the last place, and I often find her curled up in a chair, daydreaming, as if she doesn’t have any idea what effect she’s having on me. So, here I am, fighting for control over myself and the lawn.
Talia’s parked up on the porch rail to watch me, legs dangling over the side, looking adorably small. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts but she’s hacked it into a crop top—without asking—and her bare midriff keeps sucking my attention from where I’m pushing the mower.
“Do you need a hand with that?” she calls out as I flip the mower over and start yanking packed-in grass from the blade.
“No,” I say, harsher than I mean to, because if she comes over here, all hope of focusing on this is lost.
Once the blade is cleared, I flip the mower back over and yank the cord to start it, sweat sliding down between my shoulder blades. Talia sips a can of soda and draws one knee up, resting her chin on it. Not that I’m watching her.
I’ve got most of the lawn tackled at this point, and the place is looking practically respectable. She won’t let me touch the vine that’s taking over the porch, claiming it looks and smells too pretty to be a weed. With her framed by its purple blooms, I can see her point.
“I think you’re going to need to get the weed whacker out for that part,” she shouts when I try and fail to raze a cluster of weeds.
This is the game we’ve fallen into after so many days together. One of us tries to find some space, and the other wedges their way in, like a twisted game of cat and mouse to see who cracks first. I stop the mower and wrap my hands around the base of the weeds, ripping them from the ground. They come out roots and all.
“Or you could just Hulk them, that works too.”
I turn to face her, wiping sweat from my brow. “Are you just going to stand there and heckle? You could grab a shovel. There are plenty more in that flower bed.”
She takes a long drink from the can, tilting her head back to get the last drops, and I stare at the way her back arches. “What’s the point? You won’t let us go and buy flowers to fill them with.”
This is another point of contention. There’s back and forth over whether it’s safe to leave, as if she has any idea what’sgoing on outside this hideout. It’s the same reckless attitude that got her into my car in the first place. She doesn’t take her safety seriously, which means I have to do it for her.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing another handful of weeds. “I’ll make you a deal. You clear out that bed and I’ll take you to the garden store to buy some new flowers.”
Well, hell, the surprised smile on her face makes the risk worth it. It’s the biggest, most genuine smile I’ve seen from her since that first night in the club, and it makes my heart thump a little louder. There’s a risk, sure, but it’s a small one. I’ll just make sure I’m armed to the teeth when we go and keep my head on a swivel.
“Can we go now?” she asks, hopping down from the railing. “And I’ll clear the weeds after?”
When she looks at me with those big eyes, saying no is impossible. “Give me a minute to get ready,” I sigh.
