Page 75 of Scarred Bratva King

“There is noour,” he bites out, his voice turning ice-cold. “You leave. You survive. You stay. You die.”

His words are like a slap.

I shake my head, heart pounding. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me?—”

“Yes, I do,” he interrupts, stepping closer, his presence towering over me. His eyes burn. “Because I promised to protect you. And this is the only way Ican.”

I shake my head. “That’s bullshit. You taught me to fight. I killed Marco by your side for fuck’s sake. Why are you telling me I can’t handle this all of a sudden?”

“This is a mob war. It’s different.”

“Is it? Or are you just scared you’re feeling things for me? Things that make you human?”

His features harden.

“I used you to bring Marco into the open.”

“What?”

“That’s what I do, Veronica. I couldn’t find him so I did the next best thing, baited a trap. Sent you to the bookstore knowing he’d come for you.”

“I almost died, Maxim.”

“I know.” His expression is cold, his eyes dead.

The wall between us slams shut, stronger than ever.

I search his face, looking for a crack, a hesitation—anythingthat will prove he doesn’t mean it. That he’s not actually telling the truth. But he just stares at me, his expression carved from stone.

The ache in my chest deepens. He’s shutting down, retreating into that cold, unfeeling place he thinks will protect him.

But it doesn’t protect him. It only destroys everything in its path—including me.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Fine.”

His hands tighten into fists, but he gives a curt nod. Without another word, he walks to the passenger side and opens the door, waiting for me to get in.

I don’t move.

Every instinct in me screams to fight. To make him see reason. To tell him what’s at stake. But the words lodge in my throat, tangled in anger and heartbreak.

I don’t tell him. Not about the pregnancy. Not about how much I hate him for doing this. I say nothing.

I climb into the car, my hands curling into fists in my lap.

When we reach my apartment, he doesn’t turn off the engine. Just idles at the curb, staring straight ahead.

I push open my door. “I’ll go then, shall I?”

“You’re safer this way,” he says finally, his voice devoid of emotion.

I turn to him, waiting.

For an apology. A regret. Asomething.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. His mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to say something?—

But then he doesn’t.

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