Page 190 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Will you thank her for me?”

He looks annoyed by the request. “That’s not my place, either.”

I swallow back my final words and get out of the car. I take it there won’t be a warm goodbye with this guy. Sure enough, as soon as the door is shut behind me, he’s taking off like a rocket down the road. He turns the corner and disappears from my life forever.

I walk down the street, past cafes and clothing stores. Past dozens and hundreds and thousands of people who do not give a flying fuck about who I am or what purpose I might be able to serve for them.

The freedom is mind-boggling.

I end up in a little restaurant with fairy lights strung across the ceiling. The bartender is busy cleaning out his glasses for the night shift.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“Is there a phone I can use?” I ask. “I can pay for the call.”

He gives me an amused glance and hands me his cell phone. “Here you go. No need to pay.”

I return a grateful smile and quickly dial in Rob’s number. I get three unanswered rings, then the call drops.

Cursing under my breath, I try him again. I don’t want to call Mia. She’ll panic, and what I need right now is someone rational.

“Hello?” Rob’s voice is music to my ears.

“Oh, thank God. Rob?”

“Liv, where are you?” he asks. “Are you okay? Why haven’t I heard from you? Did he realize what you did during our last call?”

He shoots off question after question, but I don’t answer any of them. “I’m in a restaurant in town. It’s called…um…”

“Corino’s,” the bartender says, helping me out.

“Corino’s,” I repeat.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he says. “Don’t move.”

He hangs up before I can say anything else, so I pass the phone back to the bartender. “Thanks for that. I owe you one.”

“Yeah?” he says. “How about a drink sometime, then? On the house.”

I look him over and realize he’s not bad-looking, actually. He’s got a full beard, which is not normally my style, but it suits him. His eyes are bright and kind, his hair is a messy man bun, but it works with the whole “masculine bartender” vibe.

But my stomach turns.

And not because I’m pregnant.

It’s because I see another man’s face in my mind.

With that roiling nausea comes guilt. Like I’m cheating.

Except that, to cheat, you have to actually be involved with someone. And I’m not. Never was, really. What Aleks and I have—had—is an illusion.

It’s time it came to an end.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. My situation right now is… complicated.”

The bartender chuckles. “Aren’t they all?”

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