Page 30 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

This is… not that.

This is a fucking shitshow, to say the least.

I’m also extremely conscious of the fact that I’m still in a hospital gown and a pair of mesh panties with a melted ice pack between my legs. Not exactly an action-movie-heroine outfit.

“I have a baby,” I remind him. “A baby who needs diaper changes and a feeding schedule. Plus, I need pain medication. I can’t make any of that happen ‘as we go.’ I need a plan.”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white.

“If you don’t want to deal with it,” I continue, “then let us leave. I’d be happy to take care of myself.”

“Believe me, I’d be happy to get rid of you. But I can’t. I can’t trust you.”

I turn and gape at him in utter disbelief. “Are you fucking serious?Youcan’t trustme? You’re the one who held a gun on me. You’re the one who led thugs to my doorstep. I should be the one not trusting you!”

“If Fyodor and his men find you, how do I know you won’t tell them where I’m going?”

“Becauseyoudon’t even know where you’re going,” I argue. “How can I know something you don’t even know yet?”

His eyes narrow. “There’s still a lot of information you can share that would help them. Besides, Lukas is my son. I have to keep him safe, whether you like it or not.”

I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Asshole” is beginning to look like an extremely insufficient word for this colossal prick. The possessive tone in his voice has my hackles rising automatically.

But I can already tell what kind of man he is. Brusque. Demanding. Dominant.

Pushing back will only make him dig his heels in harder. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but I’m in no fit state to fight against him. I have to try a different approach.

“Fine. You want to be a father all of the sudden? Then get your baby some diapers and pull over so I can nurse him. Also, find me some hydrocodone. Or I’m gonna turn into an even bigger bitch than what you’ve already seen.”

10

Arya

While I nurse Lukas in the backseat, Dima goes into a convenience store to get me some “real clothes.”

“You’re joking,” I say when he re-emerges and shows me what he bought.

“Would you prefer to stay in what you have right now?”

I look down at my current attire. My sweat has soaked through the crotch of the shapeless green hospital gown and the mesh panties are really starting to chafe at my thighs.

On the other hand, the sweatpants in Dima’s hand have the words “Big Apple” written across the butt in a glittery pink cursive.

I hesitate to call that “real clothes.” But it’s all I’ve got right now.

“Fine,” I growl, snatching them out of his hand. “Face over that way. I don’t want you watching me change.”

He shrugs and strolls over to the side of the road to scrutinize oncoming traffic. I duck back in the car and shimmy into the sweatpants and the Jersey Shore tank top he bought to go with it.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I’m finally rid of the hospital gown. This outfit isn’t exactly runway ready. But it’ll do.

I crack open the door and call out over the noise of the highway, “Coast is clear.”

Dima trudges back, hands in his pockets. I study him as he walks over. He’s deep in thought. Brow furrowed, eyes stormy and distant. The beard he wore the night we met has been trimmed to close-cropped stubble. It’s effortlessly attractive.

The man is a study in contradictions. High, graceful cheekbones like a haute couture model, but a brutally sharp jaw always clenched hard and twitching with angry muscle.

Huge hands that look like they could break me without even trying. But they’re lithe and gentle, too.

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