Page 86 of Full Throttle

Evidence that she’d been crying for some time was all over her face, her skin splotchy, her eyes puffy. She opened her mouth and closed it before opening it again. “Don’t call me that.”

My spine straightened and, suddenly, my hand shot out, grabbing the back of her neck and pulling her to me as I bared my teeth. “I’ll call you whatever the hell I want. You got that?”

Her hands were on my bare chest, sending shock waves through me as she tried to push me away. Her fingers were on top of the blacked out Bratva mark, reminding me why I would never—ever—be good enough for her. “Cain—”

I cut her off with a growl as I pulled her inside, turning us so my back was against the door before I let her go. She staggered back, her chest heaving as her eyes widened. I raised my finger to her. “Don’t you fucking dare come to my house in the middle of the damn night and cry on my fucking porch, do you understand me?”

“I was just—”

“Fucking torture watching you cry,” I continued, not giving a damn about what she had to say. Her mouth closed as I flicked the lock on the door and pulled out my phone, setting the security system. When I looked back to her, those green eyes weren’t on my face.

They were on my chest—on the tattoo.

“I’ve had a hell of a day,” she whispered, tears shining in her eyes.

I didn’t say anything. I knew about the day she had. She found out the truth about me—my involvement with the Bratva. It was something I never wanted her to know, but that was wishful thinking. It was inevitable, and it was killing me.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she pressed, her voice cracking.

My eyes scanned her again, taking in every tiny detail about her before we started this conversation. Her hair was in a messy bun, strays hanging around her face. She was dressed in light-washed jeans and an oversized Nickelback shirt, her checked Vans on her feet.

When I met her eyes, I spoke. “What do you want me to say?”

She flinched and looked away from me, shaking her head. “I found out that the man I grew up with—my childhood best friend—was in the fucking Russian Mafia, and you have nothing to say?” When she looked back to me, the hurt was still there, but it was clouded by anger.

“It wasn’t something I went around bragging about, Dominique,” I told her, trying to keep my voice level. I was all over the place, and having her in my home, after touching me, had the power to cause me to snap.

“You didn’t tell me,” she shot back.

I cocked my head to the side. “I’m sorry, baby. When did you want me to find the time to tell you exactly? Before Oasis, the last time I saw you, I was telling you to stay out of the street racing world at The Pit.”

I would’ve told her everything if she’d gotten my letter and at least responded to the fucking thing.

I would’ve told her every fucking thing.

She jerked back, and I realized my mistake.

Fuck.

“What did you just call me?” she breathed.

I took a step towards her. “You heard me.”

“I—I—”

“What the hell are you doing here? It’s late. You should be sleeping,” I pressed on, my muscles tense as need pulsed through me, my gut twisting.

I needed to get her out of my house before I did something stupid.

Something very, very stupid.

Chapter Eighteen

Nikki

Cain stood before me in nothing but a pair of black sweats to match the blacked-out tattoo directly over his heart, the ink looking scratchy, almost as if the tattoo was done quickly. My eyes snapped back up to meet his pale blue ones, a lock of his blonde hair hanging down on his forehead, his jaw jumping.

“I needed to see you,” I told him, trying my best not to trip over my words. I’d spent hours crying on top of the parking garage, and when I was done, I decided the best thing to do was confront him. I needed to know why he didn’t tell me. I had so many questions.

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