Willow has found her dominance. Was this ruthless Bratva queen always lurking under the surface of the mild-mannered woman I snatched from obscurity? Or was she birthed in the last several months by a woman whose ruthlessness has become legend?
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not really asking.”
Her eyes narrow before flitting over my men and then hers. She’s taking stock of the situation. Evaluating—not from fear or panic, but from calm certainty. She nods as she makes her decision.
“I’ll come with you if you let them go.”
“A noble gesture.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
I almost smile. “Get in the vehicle, Willow.”
She flinches. “My name is Viktoria Mikhailov. Willow no longer exists.”
“Is that right?” I ask. “Willow’s parents will be disappointed to hear that.”
Her eyes go wide. I can see the information piercing through the tough veneer she’s painted on. Has she believed they were dead this whole time?
“My parents…”
I turn away from her, unwilling to divulge anything else just yet. “You have five seconds to get your ass in my jeep. You know me, Willow. I keep my promises.”
I can see it in her face: she wants to refuse me, to deny me, to fight back like she always has.
But she resists the urge and starts walking towards me.
Even her walk has changed. She moves like a predator, aware of every step and its effect. She knows how to use her new body…
And it’s making me very fucking hard.
“Madam Viktoria!” one of the Mikhailov soldiers says, stepping forward helplessly.
Jax has a gun trained on him in seconds, but he ignores that and looks straight at Willow.
“Madam Viktoria,” he says again, softer.
“It’s okay, Armand,” she sighs. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Your mother–”
“My mother knew this was a possibility,” she interrupts. “She was ready for it.”
Then she raises her left leg and gracefully settles herself into the jeep.
Jax and Gaiman are looking right at me. Gaiman’s expression is veiled. But Jax’s smile isn’t subtle at all.
“Hot damn,” he mutters.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I turn to the Mikhailov men, particularly the one who just spoke. Armand. He’s looking after Willow with an expression that speaks to devotion and infatuation.
It’s enough to merit a bullet to his leg. But I promised Willow I wouldn’t. And like I just told her, I keep my promises.
“Pursuing us is not in your best interests,” I inform them. “Unless you want to join the big fucker eating snow.”
Armand’s expression tapers into hate. “We’ll get her back. She belongs here, with us.”
I move forward so fast that none of his men have time to draw their weapons. I’m not bothered, anyway. I know my men have my back.
I grab Armand by the throat and pin him against the side of his car, knowing that she’s watching.
“There is no ‘us,’” I snarl in his face. “There is only me.”
I tighten my grip around his neck and choke the air from his lungs. Just when he starts to go blue, I throw him back onto the snow. He gasps for breath as I turn and leave him behind me.
I swing up into the jeep next to Willow, then tap the side. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Gaiman floors the gas pedal, the engine roars to life, and we rip away down the mountain pass.
The moment we’re free and clear of the Mikhailov men, I turn to the beautiful new problem sitting on the seat next to me.
Willow slowly turns to face me. Anger burns in her eyes, but it isn’t the firecracker it used to be, burning hot and fast. Looking in her blue eyes now is like looking into the mouth of a volcano. The heat is steady and controlled, but deep. Unending.
“Where is my child?”
“Your child,” she smirks. “Funny choice of words.”
“You’re going to help me get my baby back.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t do that.”
“Why the fuck not?”
Instantly, a switch flips in her. The anger is gone. Everything is gone. Looking at her now is like staring at a doll.
She’s nearly lifeless as she says, “I can’t get the baby because there is no baby to get.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask.
She turns to face me fully. “Your child died in my stomach months ago.”