Page 87 of Full Throttle

Was the Bratva at The Pit?

Was that why he pushed me way?

When did he get out?

Was it before or after he sent that letter to me, and I ran to New York to be with him?

Did I waste years of my life racing to find him while he was in Russia the entire time?

Was it all for nothing?

“You needed to see me,” he parroted, slowly.

I nodded.

His eyes trailed down the length of me again. “You could’ve come to me at Oasis instead of getting behind the fucking wheel again,” he said, growling the last bit.

I stiffened, ignoring the venom in his words. “I thought I was ready.”

Suddenly, he was in front of me, his hand clutching the back of my neck again. “You were foolish, Nik,” he snapped, anger flaring in his eyes as the temperature in the room dropped, the air around us getting heavy.

“I thought—”

“I know you,” he cut me off, using his other hand to point to the door. “I know you better than anyone else in this city—at Oasis. I know shit sticks with you. I know what goes on in that beautiful fucking head of yours. You can try to pretend in front of everyone else, pretend that crash didn’t fuck you up, but I know. I’ll always know.”

A sharp lump formed in my throat, making it hard to swallow as I tried to form a sentence. I couldn’t think straight with his hand on me. Memories from our first kiss surged forward, overtaking my logic. He didn’t seem to mind. He wasn’t done lecturing me.

His fingers flexed on the back of my neck, sending goosebumps down my back as he said, “I pulled you from the fire. I watched the EMTs and doctors work to try to get you to fucking breathe. I watched you while you laid in that fucking hospital bed, covered in dirt, soot, and blood. I watched you hobble around that fucking loft for a week, trying to hide your winces, trying to appear strong.”

I whimpered as his other hand came up to my face. “You can pretend for everyone else, but you never have to pretend with me, clover.” His thumb stroked my cheek and I wanted to wake up from this dream. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

My heart skipped a beat as his eyes dropped to my lips. “Don’t call me that either,” I told him, my words coming out as a breath.

His eyes snapped to mine. “And I told you I’ll call you whatever the hell I like,” he murmured.

“W-what are you doing?” I breathed as he focused on my lips again.

“A word of advice, Nik; don’t show up to my house in the middle of the night again,” he warned, his nostrils flaring as his hands dropped from me, leaving an ache behind. “Come in here. I’ll get you some ice water.”

My heart skipped yet another beat. “You don’t have to get me ice. I’ll just take a bottle,” I told him softly as he brushed past me.

As I turned to follow him, he whirled on me, halting me once more. He stuck his tongue on the inside of his cheek as he gave me a look. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Overlook your needs for the sake of convenience. You can do that with anyone else, but not me,” he said sternly.

I only drank water ice-cold; anything other than that made me want to gag. I’d always been like that, and my mother found it annoying, but my father always managed to make it happen.

My chin wobbled as Cain turned from me, heading through his wide living room which house an enormous sectional with a TV hanging from the wall. Once we were out of the living area, we walked by a dining room and—

“You h-have an engine hanging over your table,” I gawked, eyes wide. There was a heavy piece of leather covering on the table with his tools scattered on top of it and half an engine hanging over it, held up by a chain. It wasn’t very big, and I knew it was just in the beginning stages of being built. The chair at the head of the table was pulled out like someone had just gotten up from it.

“Order for customer,” he muttered, moving on.

After a second, I followed him into the kitchen and, once again, found myself gawking. The first time I’d been here was a few weeks ago with Mina, but I mainly stayed in the living area.

The first thing I’d noticed was how clean this house was. It smelled of lemons, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. His kitchen was just the same. It was an all-black kitchen, with gorgeous black marble counter tops, a gas stove, and sink. The backsplash was tiled, black with gray marbling.

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