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.”
Then, slowly, she turns back to the window and refuses to say another word.
4
WILLOW
We drive for fucking ages.
The last half hour has been spent off-roading, bouncing over unpaved terrain. Wherever we’re headed, I’m willing to bet it’s far more difficult to find than the fortress in which I’ve ensconced for the last eleven months.
I try and stare out the window for as long as I can, but I can feel his gaze like a physical touch. It’s as distracting as I remember.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Oh, are you talking again?” he asks.
Once I do glance over, it’s hard to look away again. My memories of him had grown fuzzy. I remembered him in broad swathes, like an abstract painting. The finer details had been blended out.
But now, he is flesh and blood again.
The scar on his neck stands out, as intricate and frightening as ever. I’d forgotten how square his jaw is, how his nose slopes down at a perfect angle. His features are harsh in isolation, but when combined, they form the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even after everything we’ve been through, everything he’s done to me, I can’t deny that.
Sitting next to me in the car, he blocks the window. He seems taller and broader than I remember.
Suddenly, I wonder if I’m strong enough for this. I want to be. It’s what I’ve worked towards for eleven endless months.
But being confronted with the reality of him now, my ambitions seem far-fetched. Hers do, as well.
I have never been more aware of him.
Or of my own body.
A body that betrayed me several times in the early months of life with my birth mother. We were together nearly a year, but there’s still a detachment. A wariness I can’t shake, a distance I can’t cross.
“Where are my parents?” I ask, knowing full well the consequences of asking.
He studies me with a cold, unmoved expression. “If you expect me to answer your questions, you’re going to have to answer mine.”
I’m actually warm in my layers and boots, but goosebumps dapple my skin. Apparently, dying and being reborn as someone new isn’t enough to undo the way my body reacts to his.
“What do you want to know?” I’m proud of the dispassion in my tone. It’s a skill I’ve been practicing. One I intend to master.
“You know exactly what I want to know.”
I ignore the twisting pain of the memories and focus on remaining in control, neutral. “It was a boy,” I tell him softly.
He doesn’t so much as flinch, but I know him well enough to know that information is a blow. His legacy, dead in the womb.
I continue without being prompted. “I started bleeding out in my fourth month. A team of doctors came.”
“She didn’t take you to a hospital?” he growls.
“I was bleeding out too fast,” I speak in the voice Anya uses when she tells me a story from her past. As if it happened to someone else. Mere fact, no emotion. “If they’d moved me, I might have died, too.”
He doesn’t speak. If he has any feelings about the idea of my death, he doesn’t reveal them. I can’t say I’m surprised.
“I was bedridden for a month afterwards,” I continue. “I was unconscious when they buried him. He’s on her compound, if it means anything to you.”
“Where?” The single word vibrates with barely contained emotion.
“An unmarked grave,” I tell him. “Since I didn’t name him, it seemed fitting.”
“You should have named him.”
The anger surges out, cutting through the distance between us. But I welcome it. Because the truth is that I want him to suffer. I want to make him feel the sting of loss. The same I’ve had to grapple with.
“What I should have done is not your concern,” I snap. “You weren’t there.”
“Is that an accusation?”
I have to bite down on my tongue to keep my emotions from spilling out. Show them nothing but indifference, and they won’t be able to use your feelings against you. Her lessons feel timeless, though I’ve barely scratched the surface of understanding her world, Leo’s world.
“I’m just stating a fact,” I say. “You weren’t there.”
He’s staring at me, but he says nothing. No explanation or apology. It’s foolish to even consider that he might offer me some form of closure.
The man was never in this for me.
He was after my name. Nothing more.
The car finally comes to a stop at the end of a crude gravel path. It seems to lead nowhere.
“Get out,” he orders.
I’m ready to argue, to remind him I’m not the same woman he met a year ago. But before I can say anything, he’s out of the car. His door slams in my face.
“The whole confident, black widow thing is really working for you,” Jax says, twisting around in the front seat with a wide grin. “I’m just not sure it’ll work on him.”
He chuckles as I climb out of the car and follow down the gravel path after Leo.
The trees get thicker the further we go. Jax and Gaiman linger just close enough to be noticed and just far enough not to eavesdrop. I’d be a fool not to notice they’re doing it intentionally.
Clearly, they’re blocking me in.
“What’s the matter, boys?” I ask them, throwing a glance over my shoulder. “Scared I’ll make a run for it?”
“Nah,” Jax quips. “I just like the view from back here.”
“Jax.”
The man flinches at the sound of Leo’s voice. It’s my turn to laugh as Jax hurries past me to walk with Leo, his shoulders slouched in regret.