The Bastard's Betrayal (Scandalous Scions 1)

Except Jackson wasn’t a real guy.

“I take it you’re my babysitter tonight.”

Instead of answering, Vasily strode to the SUV and pulled open the back door. When it was just the two of them, she didn’t like riding in the back because it brought attention to her status. She bit back a sigh and climbed into the vehicle. It didn’t matter now if they chauffeured her around. After tonight, there would be no one to ask questions about it.

Vasily knew her well enough to not attempt conversation as they drove to Jackson’s shitty apartment. They simply parked a few blocks over and looked at her. “You have your piece.”

“Of course.” She pulled her cross-body purse over her head and patted it. It wasn’t huge, but it was more than enough room for her little handgun. She usually had more creative ways of carrying, but if she showed up dressed as Rose Romanov, he would immediately know something was wrong. The only way she’d pull this off was to catch him unawares. That meant not giving away that she knew the truth. “I won’t be long.”

“Call when you’re finished. There’s a team nearby who will handle cleanup.”

Being the princess had its perks, though she doubted most people would consider not having to personally deal with body removal a perk. Those people had never tried to fit a two-hundred-pound man into the truck of a sedan before. “Will do.”

“Rose.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know you’re not about to tell me to be careful.”

“He’s dangerous. Be careful.” They said it without a hint of irony.

“I’m dangerous, too.” She climbed out of the SUV before they could badger her some more. Vasily knew what she was capable of, but everyone got a little skittish when the heir put herself in danger. A small irritation in the grand scheme of things, but an irritation, nonetheless.

It was so hot, she could almost see the waves of it coming off the pavement. Within two blocks, her skin sported a fine sheen of sweat, and she wished she’d taken the time to braid her hair back from her face. The long, dark locks were a vanity of hers, but they sure as fuck were inconvenient at times.

She took the stairs up to Jackson’s—Dante’s—apartment. The main door’s lock was broken and had been since she met him. She’d joked about the security risk, but either he’d never reported it, or the super didn’t care enough to fix it. It didn’t matter now, not when it worked to her advantage.

Rose took a deep breath, paused to make sure her purse was open and the gun within easy reach, and knocked on the door. It was only then that she realized she hadn’t texted or called before showing up. It was too late to alter course now. If Jackson—damn it, Dante—wasn’t home, she’d just break in and wait for him to return.

A shuffling on the other side of the door had her holding her breath. It opened a moment later to reveal the man himself. His blond hair was mussed like he’d been sleeping. For a moment, longing swept over her, so strong it felt like the tide pulling at her legs, demanding she go to him like she always did when she walked through his door. She’d just seen him last night, but she missed him.

A lie.

It was all a fucking lie.

His dark eyes went wide at the sight of her. “Rose. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” She managed a sweet smile even though it felt like her heart was shredding. Fury and pain and heartache twisted and whirled inside her, the mix so toxic, she felt sick to her stomach. None of it showed in her voice. “Sorry I didn’t call. I was in the neighborhood and, well…I got a little impulsive.”

“Well, I’m not going to turn down some time with my girl.” He stepped back and opened the door wide.

My girl.

You fucking bastard.

She barely managed to keep her smile in place as she moved into the apartment. It looked the same as the last time she’d spent the night. Ratty secondhand furniture that she’d found ridiculously charming. A massive television and gaming setup. The kitchen was falling apart but clean. The entire place was clean. She’d liked that a lot about him, that he took good care of his things, even if they weren’t necessarily valuable to anyone else. She’d liked that he taken care of her, too.

Her chest gave another sickening lurch, but she shut it down. Or she tried. Everywhere she looked, there was evidence of their time together. The container of coffee she kept here because he only drank the cheap stuff. The secondhand romance novel she’d picked up on one of their afternoon dates and had been slowing reading through when she spent time with him. The throw blanket he’d surprised her with one day because she always complained of being cold when she stayed over.