Page 72 of Wicked Refusal

Jesus. Could he make it any clearer that he’s recording this? That he plans to use it in court?

“No,” I say softly. When I speak next, I lean into his breast pocket, right where I see the telltale bump of a microphone. “I’m saying he confronted you, and every time he did, you went home crying like a baby. So, if I were you, I’d save myself the embarrassment of bawling my eyes out in court.”

His fist tightens. I can tell he wants to let it fly.

But I’m tired of running scared. Tired of letting him have the last word and the first punch. I’m done cowering in the corner, dreading the day he’ll take away my child, the day he’ll decide I’m his again. I’m done fearing Bradley Baldwin.

It’s high time he started fearing me.

Come on—hit me.I square my shoulders, dare him with my eyes.Do it right here, in front of everyone.

But he doesn’t take the bait, not yet. “He’s my son,” he says. “I have a right to see him. Otherwise, you’re looking at parental alienation charges.”

Parental alienation.For once, it’s not trumped-up. I kept Eli from him for nearly five years, and the second I had the chance, I ran away with him again.

Because he was violent. Because he was drunk. Because he was hurting Eli just by being near him.

I have no proof of any of that. Witnesses, maybe, but no one I’d want to put on the stand. It just wouldn’t be smart—or even fair. Yulian is Bratva, and Eli’s just five years old. Who’d ever believe him?

Brad smirks at me. He thinks he’s won. I can read it on his face—he thinks he has me.

But he does have me.

Doesn’t he?

No.I steel myself and stand my ground.No more running.

“I don’t give a shit what I’m looking at,” I snap. “You’re a drunk, violent psychopath, and the only way you’ll ever get tomyson again is over my dead goddamn body.”

A vein starts popping at his temple. The second I see it, I know he’s going to do it. He’s going to punch me—right here, where every parent and teacher can see it.

He might give me a black eye. He might break my nose. But by the time it’s over, I’ll have won.

This is for Eli, too.

“You bitch,” he spits, preparing to strike. “You fucking bitch.”

But it’s not his arm he raises.

It’s his leg.

Abruptly, I realize I’ve miscalculated. He isn’t going to punch me—he’s going to knee me in the belly, try to force a miscarriage. Sure, he’ll lose any claim to Eli, but I might lose my baby.

No, Iwilllose my baby. I can see it in his eyes: he’s not going to stop. Not until he’s certain. And who’s going to help in time? Who, when every parent here has their own babies to think about?

My hands shoot to my belly. There’s no time to step back, no time to run. All I can do is try to protect my baby.

I brace myself for the blow?—

—but it never comes.

Brad goes sprawling on the sidewalk. Nikita grinds her boot into his groin, forcing a howl of pain from his throat. She looks like an avenging angel, all leather clothes and unbridled rage.

“Touch her again,” she says in fury, “and you won’t be making any more babies, either. Now, scram before I call my boss and tell him what you tried to do.”

Then she lifts her boot and lets him go.

Brad curls up on himself. He’s whimpering a whole stream of curses, but the only part that makes sense to me is “… isn’t over.”