Page 34 of Twisted Pact
“Oops,” I lie. “Didn’t realize you were out here.”
I walk past him toward my door. My towel slips just enough to expose the curve of my breast. I catch it before it falls all the way off, but not before he sees. Not before his pupils dilate and his hands form fists at his sides.
Finally, some sort of reaction.
I shut my door and lean against it with a smile. Two can play this game. If he’s going to keep me prisoner, I will make every second of his restraint miserable.
The next morning, I wake to find boxes outside my door. I drag them inside and start unpacking. Clothes in my size. Toiletries. Books. Everything I might need for an extended stay.
Alexei planned this. Bought all of this before we even left the safe house. He knew I’d end up here for weeks, maybe months, and he prepared accordingly.
The realization should make me angry and prove my point about him controlling every aspect of my life.
Instead, I’m touched by the thoughtfulness. By the fact that he remembered I read historical fiction, and included three new releases. That he bought the specific brand of shampoo I’d brought with me.
I’m sorting through toiletries when I find it. A pregnancy test, just one, tucked in among the tampons and pain relievers, like it’s a normal item to include in a care package for your unwilling houseguest.
My hand freezes on the box. Does he suspect that our one encounter might have unintentional consequences?
It’s still too early for my period to be late—we only slept together three weeks ago—and I seriously doubt I got pregnant my first time having sex.
Although we didn’t use protection.
No. Nope. Not going there.
I shove the test to the bottom of the drawer and try not to imagine what Alexei would do if I were pregnant. If our one night of reckless passion resulted in something neither of us wanted.
I slam the drawer shut so hard that the vanity rattles.
One life-altering crisis at a time.
10
Alexei
Leonid Andreev shows up at my gate covered in sweat and looking like death.
I watch him on the security monitor as he leans against his car door. His shirt is wrinkled, and his hair is sticking up on its ends. This is not the composed Bratva patriarch I’ve come to know.
“Let him in,” I tell the guard through the intercom.
Mila’s in the kitchen making coffee when I head downstairs. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts that barely covers her thighs, and her hair is still messy from sleep.
“Your father’s here,” I tell her.
Her face goes pale. “Papa? Why would he come here?”
“That’s what I’m about to find out. Stay upstairs.”
“Like hell.”
“Mila—”
“He’s my father. Whatever he has to say, I need to hear it.”
I don’t have time to argue. Leonid’s already out of his car and walking toward the front door. I open it before he can knock.
“Alexei.” His voice cracks on my name. “I need to speak with you. Privately.”
