Midnight Lies (Tasarov Bratva 2)

I shrug. “Sure you can. Why not? I’m not stopping you.”

“Is this how it’s going to be?” she asks. “You holding Isabella over me? Forcing me to do things I don’t want to do?”

“No one is forcing you to do anything, Emery.”

She glares at me and then screams in frustration. “You are so… so…”

“Merciful?” I offer. “Forgiving? I’ll take either or both, especially considering how many times I’ve forgiven you for fucking up.”

Her eyes are nuclear, practically flaming as she stomps across the room. She stops in front of me, close enough for her chest to brush against mine. “You are so delusional, is the word I was looking for. Straight up certifiable. You need serious, serious help.”

I tip my head to the side. “Is that so?”

“You think the way you see the world is the way everyone sees it,” she presses on. “Or the way they ought to, at least. You are convinced you’re never wrong. That everyone bows to your whims. It’s psychotic.”

I could waste my breath telling Emery that that's exactly how the world works. I'm not psychotic to believe what I see with my own eyes every day.

But talking gets me nowhere with this woman. I'd rather show Emery the truth.

I reach up and swirl my finger around the point of her nipple, visible through her sports bra.

She hisses and tries to back away, but I follow her, pressing a hand to her lower back and reeling her in against me. I don’t give a fuck about her sweat. Matter of fact, I like it. It makes this whole thing feel appropriately primal.

“Am I delusional about this, too? About how much you obviously want me?”

“Don’t get too flattered. It’s the pregnancy hormones. You’re just the nearest Y chromosome.” She squirms against me, trying to get free. But the friction of her body against mine almost ensures she won’t. She isn’t the only one getting excited. “Let me go, asshole.”

I lean down. Emery stiffens, but she doesn’t twist away or hide her face.

As I graze past her mouth, I see her eyes flutter closed. Then I press my lips to her ear and whisper, “Make me.”

Emery’s breath hitches. She inhales sharply. Then she swings her arm back. “You really are an asshole.”

Her fist slams against my chest. It’s a surprisingly solid hit, though it isn’t nearly hard enough to hurt or force me back. But as soon as it lands, Emery cries out.

“Shit!” She jerks her hand back, her fingers flexing. “Fuck! Ow. Dammit.”

I let her go and reach for her arm. “What happened?”

“You did,” she snarls, spinning on me. She tries to swing her injured hand at me again, but winces and aborts the mission halfway through. “Ow, Christ!”

“Would you stop taking swings and stand still?”

I grab her arm and turn it in my hands. Emery tries to yank it back, but she cries out in pain again.

“Hold still,” I command.

Finally, she listens, whimpering as I poke at her wrist. “I think you sprained it.”

“You sprained it,” she argues, pulling it back and cradling her wrist against her chest.

I roll my eyes. “Right. I sprained your wrist when you tried to punch me in the chest. My mistake.”

“I was provoked.”

Emery rolls her wrist, testing it, and I see tears spring up in her eyes. She does her best to blink them back.

And as she does, I feel an uncomfortable roiling low in my chest.

This shouldn’t be working. Emery is throwing a tantrum, as per usual. She hurt herself trying to fight me, as per usual. But seeing her injured brings some long-buried sense of protectiveness in me to the surface. I want to take care of her.

Per. Fucking. Usual.

“Come with me. I’ll wrap it.”

She lifts her chin. “I’ll do it myself.”

“With one hand?” I scoff. Her confidence wavers and I nod. “That’s what I thought. Don’t be stubborn. Come on.”

With a sigh, she hangs her head and follows me into the bathroom. There’s a first aid kit in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. The medical wrap is still in the original box, untouched. I unfurl it and gingerly begin wrapping her wrist.

She winces on the first few turns, but then she relaxes. The pressure is already helping.

“You’re good at this.”

“I’m good at everything,” I say.

She snorts. “That’s what I’m talking about. Delusional.”

When I finish wrapping her wrist, I tuck the end beneath one of the layers and then look up at her, her arm still cradled in my hand.

“Do you think you can protect Isabella on your own?” I ask her, looking straight into her eyes.

Emery’s face morphs as emotions course through her in quick succession. Anger. Determination. Fear. Everything we’ve worked through since the very beginning.

And, finally, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

Realization.

She sighs. “No. Not the way you can.”

I reach out and stroke her bottom lip with my thumb. It’s full and warm, as sensual as ever. I nod. “Good girl.”

* * *

The bar top is littered with empty glasses. I drain what’s left of mine and add another one to the collection.

“They weren’t prepared for how much a Bratva can drink,” Stefan says, sliding yet another empty glass into the mix.

“Clearly. Who knew mourning could make people so thirsty?”

Stefan laughs. “They’re celebrating, too.” He thrusts his empty hand into the air and shouts to the crowd, “To Don Tasarov!”

A cheer erupts through the bar and everyone tosses back what’s in their cup. Stefan mimes drinking his pretend drink and then claps me on the back. “I’m glad you came out. It feels like old times.”

I glance over at the booth where Isabella and Emery are sitting. Isabella is idly petting Travis, eyeing the group of kids sitting at the next table over. She has been staring for half an hour, but hasn’t worked up the courage to go talk to them yet.

Emery is sitting next to her, smiling at people who pass while clumsily stabbing at the food on her plate. Her uninjured left hand isn’t very practiced at getting the food to her mouth.

“Everything still feels different to me,” I say.

Stefan shoves my shoulder. “Yeah, you’re married with a kid and a dog now. The American fuckin’ Dream, sans white picket fence. Plus, you’re the man in charge. You have too many responsibilities to get drunk and trash this bar with me.”

“If you trash this place, the money comes out of your paycheck. The Bratva isn’t paying for it.”