“Since when do you drink red?” I ask. “That was always his preference.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you even like the taste?”
She shrugs. Her smile falters for an instant before she regains control of it. “It transports me,” she says quietly. “I can almost imagine kissing him if I drink enough of the stuff.”
“Not sure you need any more alcohol right now.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Alcohol is the only thing that’s kept me going these past eight years.”
“I was hoping you’d say it was me.”
The smile comes back, but it’s darker now. Half-hearted. “She’s kinda perfect for you, you know,” Ariel observes grudgingly. “I might actually like her if she didn’t look at me like she wanted to take my head off.”
“Can you blame her?”
“I tortured her a little so that he wouldn’t torture her a lot,” she says defensively. “I had a role to play.”
“You don’t have to lecture me.”
“That’s not why she hates me. You do realize that, don’t you?”
I grab a beer and take a swig. “Who knows what’s going on in that head of hers? Anya’s definitely fucked with her.”
“It’s not like you to play coy,” she says pointedly. “It’s charming—but out of character.”
“Ariel…”
“She hates me because of what she thinks is between us. I think that’s your strongest point of entry right there.”
“You’re underestimating how stubborn she is.”
“And you’re underestimating how hot you are.”
“Ariel…”
“I only do it because it makes you uncomfortable,” she quips. “A girl’s gotta have some fun, you know?”
Her smile deepens and transforms. It becomes warmer. For a moment, I see a flash of the girl she used to be before circumstance turned her hard and cunning. Before life broke her in ways that cannot be fixed.
I head upstairs to my room. Patrik and Moritz are standing guard outside. I dismiss them with a nod and go in.
Willow is standing in front of the window, her back to me. The moment she hears the click of the door shutting, she turns around slowly. Her eyes are shining but she’s not crying. She just looks… broken.
I know I’m pushing her. I know I’m not being kind.
But I never promised to be fucking kind. I can only be what I am: the man who always gets what he wants.
“Are you fucking her?”
Willow’s question is direct and certain, unwavering in a way she wasn’t always capable of. She wants a clear answer. An end to the torment of not knowing.
A kind man would put her out of her misery. Unfortunately for her, I’m the farthest thing from it.
“Why do you care?”
She glares and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s still in her tight blue jeans and black crop top. I can see the toned abs of her stomach, and her strength is fucking sexy. She’s not wearing makeup, but she doesn’t need any.
It would probably only get smudged anyway.
“Cut the shit, Leo,” she snaps. “What’s your deal with her?”
“I already told you.”
“No, you haven’t. All your answers are vague and evasive. I’m missing part of this story, and I want to know what it is.”
“I’ve told you before: everything in the Bratva has to be earned.”
She rolls her eyes. She’s hurt, but she’s trying to project confidence. She’s trying to carry herself with the same self-assurance that Anya does. That Brit does.
But I know her well enough to read past the facade.
“I know why you married me,” she says. “I know why you want me here. But why am I in this room with you, Leo? Because let’s face it: if you wanted me locked up, you could do that anywhere. I don’t need to be in your room.”
If she’s expecting some honest, straightforward, and vulnerable answer, she’s talking to the wrong person.
“You’re right,” I say with a nod. “You don’t need to be here. This way is just more fun.”
“So that’s it, then?” she asks. “This is just a game to you?”
“None of it is a game, Willow. That’s what I’m trying to make you understand. Our son should be here with his parents.”
“You say that like I’m going to be a part of his life if you have your way.”
“Why would I keep you from him?” I ask.