Page 137 of Unexpected Heroine

Colder still. Distance growing.

I’m losing him.

Confusion and dread pool in my gut. Blinking, I shift back, putting a few inches of physical distance between us. Might as well mirror the emotional void.

As much as my heart hemorrhages for us, my head might be in a far worse position. For the life of me, I don’t understand how he could have known Papa. For that matter, what possible connection could my sweet, small-town grandfather have with the Russian mafia? If someone put a gun to my head and said I had to offer a potential explanation, I couldn’t come up with diddly squat.

He waits for my answer.

Unspeaking, unblinking, and . . . unfeeling?

I attempt to rewind my thoughts to the horrible moment when Viktor had me stand naked before him in that disgusting room. I don’t want to think about it, but if I’m ever going to get answers, I need to face it.

It’s now or never.

I long for never. But even my delulu won’t let me sweep this aside. Metaphorically, she breaks the broom over her knee, crosses her arms at her chest, and stares us down.

Although his face and voice have turned frigid, he keeps hold of my waist, only allowing me the few inches I retreated. He’s locked me here, refusing to give me any further space. It’s the only indication that he’s still with me. Not physically.

With me, heart and soul.

A delicate thread of hope spirals inside me when he pulses his hands and caresses me lovingly. “Is it too painful to remember, sugar?”

Yes. But also no.

Not having this discussion now would hurt more than remembering the entire ordeal with Viktor.

I shake my head. “I-I-I’m thinking.”

“Did he say your father’s name?”

Without hesitation, I answer, “No. He only referred to him as my father.”

No matter how traumatizing it was, I would have remembered if he used Papa’s name.

But why does it matter?

He lowers his forehead, looking at me from under his furrowed brow. “And did he say my name?”

Unbidden, my snark makes an appearance. “Which one?”

His nostrils flare, and his jaw tics. A crack in his icy facade.

Stuffing my sarcasm in a sack, I give him a proper answer. “He only called you my boyfriend.”

“Maybe he was fucking with you.” Warmth slowly returns to his expression and tone. “It might have been a mind game. Something to?—”

I cut him off, vehemently insisting, “He wasn’t.”

“How do you know? You can’t trust people like him.”

Oh no you don’t. No, no, no.

Suddenly, I see it so clearly. Like he’s done many times before, he’s attempting to deflect. Taking the easy path and beckoning me to follow.

My tender heart wishes I could give that to him. The last thing I want to do is hurt this man. I love him. And I saw the heartbreak carved into his features a few minutes ago when he realized I wasn’t taken as some random act.

Only now, he’s attempting to double back.

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