Page 43 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

She nods. “I would, yes. That’s what you do for family.”

“We have very different ideas of what makes a family,” I drawl.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“But there’s another difference, too,” I say. “I don’t use my family as an excuse. I don’t apologize for living the life I want. I don’t let their opinions interfere with mine. I don’t live for their approval. So why should you?”

“Because I love them,” she says. “I love them, Aleks. But of course you can’t understand that. You don’t love anyone or anything.”

I don’t say a word back to that. I don’t feel any need to defend myself to her. Which is one of the ways we are different. But I can feel her eyes on the side of my face, waiting for me to fight fire with fire.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she snaps finally.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Are you even capable of love?”

“Love is a liability I don’t need in my life,” I say gruffly.

Her jaw drops. She fumbles for her words for a second as a thunderstorm of emotions passes over her face.

“What about this baby?” she asks. “You’re telling me that you can’t love your own child?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just said—”

“It’s different,” I snap. “It’s instinctual. Biological. I won’t have a choice but to love my child.”

I watch as her eyes go wide with realization. “I get it,” she says softly. “What you’re saying is that you can’t loveme.”

I spare her a glance as I make a left turn. We’re only minutes away from The Imperial now, and I don’t have the words to articulate to her how she’s managed to get under my skin.

“Don’t park right in front of the building,” she says in a small voice. “I don’t want anyone seeing us together.”

I don’t argue. It’s stopped raining, anyway. Nothing to shield her from anymore.

I stop about a block from the massive building and get out of the car. I grab the duffel and, while Olivia is getting down, I double check to make sure the items I planted inside it are still there.

Then I zip the bag shut and carry it to her. “Careful. It’s heavy.”

“I can manage,” she retorts. “It’s not a long walk.”

“If you say so. Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to put my number on it. If there’s anything you need—”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Don’t be a child, Olivia,” I sigh. “Just give me your phone.”

She grumbles, but hands it over.

I save my number and hand it back to her. “I’ve saved the contact underMile High Club.”

“Very funny,” she says dryly.

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