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  She planted her feet stubbornly as if she could pit her strength against his. "Let go of me," she hissed. "I mean it. Let go right now."

  He didn't; instead, his fingers tightened until they were a shackle around her upper arm. "Not happening, babe. Did you fuck him?"

  Her mouth opened and closed twice. There was a kind of horror in her eyes as if she looked at a monster--or she was shocked that she got caught. "After five years of nothing, that's the first thing out of your mouth?" She kept her voice low.

  "You must have forgotten. I go for the important things and keep the bullshit to a minimum." She struggled more, and he tightened his grip warningly.

  "I'm giving you bullshit?"

  Her eyes narrowed, and the dark chocolate washed through him like a heat wave. His blood turned to molten lava. He'd forgotten that reaction to her little flares of temper. Whenever she got annoyed with him and gave him that look, his cock reacted, going hard with urgent demand. It took control not to drop his hand and feel that honest reaction, something that didn't happen as a rule, another thing beat out of him in his childhood.

  He did drag her close, tight against him, her hips against his, so she could feel that hard length imprinted on her soft skin. "Yeah, you're giving me bullshit."

  "I'm not the one who murdered my stepfather and then disappeared without a word. A single word. Just left the dead body and my grieving drunk of a mother."

  He noticed she didn't say she'd been grieving. No matter how much her stepfather had tried to con her, she had never liked him. "I left you a long, detailed letter. Get on the back of my bike. I'm not discussing this with you in the street, especially after waiting for five fucking years and I find my wife with another man."

  She put both hands against his chest and tried to shove him. "Stop saying I'm your wife. I'm not, and unless you want every sheriff in a hundred-mile range running here fast, let go right now."

  "You are my wife, legally and in every other way, so that gives me the right to know whether or not you're fucking that coward."

  She glanced back at the man who had slunk away. He had his cell phone out so they were going to get a visit by the cops soon. "No. Not that you deserve an answer. And stop saying fuck. I hate that and you know it."

  She had always hated that word. He was going to have to clean up his language, and he'd catch hell from the others letting a woman dictate to him, but the one thing about Blythe he couldn't imagine changed was the fact that she didn't lie. He could see it in her eyes. Not only was she telling the truth--she hadn't slept with the coward--her body wanted Viktor and was glad to see him, whether her brain and heart did or not. That was something.

  "Clearly you're a Prakenskii, and from what I understand that means you were working for your government. When we found out who my stepfather was, a notorious pedophile, I realized, rather recently, that you had been assigned to kill him. You did your job and used me to do it. I get that, so I'm not calling the cops and turning you in for murder, but stop saying I'm your wife, because I'm not and you have no right to act all self-righteous."

  "You are my wife. In case you don't remember, we got married. In a church. I remember. Too bad you so easily can forget." He couldn't help the snarl in his voice. She could piss him off like no one else. He liked being her husband. He wanted her to like it as well, but mostly he wanted her to admit they were married.

  A low whistle warned him the sheriff must have showed up. He glanced over his shoulder. Reaper and Savage flanked him; the others sat on their bikes, watching.

  "Get on the bike, Blythe." He heard a car door shut. Two men were striding toward them. He recognized Jackson Deveau immediately and guessed the man with him was Jonas Harrington, the local sheriff. He'd heard of his reputation. "They don't stand a chance against my brothers and me, so don't be stupid and make a scene."

  She stiffened at his not-so-veiled threat. "They're law enforcement," she whispered. "Viktor, don't be crazy."

  "You know what will happen if you don't just get on the bike. I'm not leaving you again."

  Blythe glanced behind her at the two men walking up the sidewalk toward them. "Fine." She bit the word out between clenched teeth, turned away from him and stomped toward the bikes parked in front of the bar.

  Viktor took the time to admire the sway of her ass. He'd always liked the way his woman walked. He didn't look at the sheriff, but followed behind Blythe, ready to catch her if she tried changing her mind. Reaper and Savage had his back.

  Blythe halted so abruptly he nearly ran her down. He caught her shoulders, his body crowding hers, in order to force her forward, but she only took two small steps and then stopped again.

  "Just which bike is yours?" she demanded, staring straight ahead.

  He followed her gaze to his bike. Alena sat on the back, looking relaxed, as if she belonged there. There was no explaining Alena there on the street with the cops coming right up on them and a small crowd watching the drama.

  "You bastard." Blythe's voice was low, a whisper of sound, but he caught the note of hurt. "Nothing coming out of your mouth is the truth. You wouldn't know it if it hit you in the face. I'll have my lawyer check into the marriage. If it was legal, you'll be hearing from him. I won't stay married to you." She spun away from him, her back ramrod stiff.

  Viktor cursed and caught her arm. "There's not going to be a divorce."

  "Is there a problem here, Blythe?"

  It was the taller of the two men who spoke. Jonas Harrington. He and Jackson had spread out a little, giving themselves room if they needed it. Reaper had positioned himself on the side nearest Jackson, perceiving him as the bigger of the two threats. Savage flanked Harrington. The other members of Torpedo Ink slowly stood up, ready to move on his signal.

  "No, Jonas," Blythe said brightly. "We were just talking, but we're finished now." She sent Viktor a glare. "Completely finished."

  Deveau didn't appear to be fazed by being surrounded by the bikers. He walked up to Viktor and held out his hand. "Nice to see you again. I had no idea you knew Blythe."

  It was a stab in the dark. He and Blythe had been speaking low to each other. All Deveau had to go on was the way they looked together.

  "She's my wife," he said and signaled to the others to get on their bikes. They were leaving. He wasn't going to risk her or Alena getting hurt.

  Blythe stepped closer to Deveau, and that pissed him off. She didn't need the man's protection. Not from him. Then again, maybe she did. If he had his way, he'd be taking her somewhere private and they'd be getting down to business fast.

  "Is that true, Blythe?" Jonas asked.

  Viktor went still. It was one thing to have his woman call him out, but another man? Hell no. He'd been spoiling for a fight and the thought of hitting someone really hard was more than tempting. "You calling me a liar?" He spoke low, but his words carried, and there was no mistaking the menace in them.

  Blythe turned immediately and put a hand on his arm, stepping squarely between him and the sheriff. "Of course he's not calling you a liar, Viktor. He's just shocked because he's known me practically since birth, and I'm not wearing a ring." She held up her hand with its naked finger. "See?"

  He caught her wrist. "Where the hell is your ring?"

  Her eyes flashed that startling brown again, a pure flame of dark chocolate. His body, as perverse as it was, reacted a second time, his cock full and aching, no half measures at all. She put both hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, her mouth against his ear. "Your girlfriend is wearing it. I told her she could have it."

  Her lips brushed his earlobe, soft and inviting, sending heat spiraling through him. She went to pull away, but he caught the ponytail. All that thick, silky hair she had tied up at the back of her head. Using her hair, he tilted her head and brought his mouth down on hers. She gasped and his tongue swept inside.

  Her taste. He remembered that taste. Raw honey. Lust rose sharp and terrible, a need that nearly overwhelmed him. He kissed her like he'd wa
nted to over the last five years. All those lonely days and nights of hell, gone just like that, swept away by her magic. She'd always been able to do that. Take him somewhere he'd never been or even imagined. It didn't matter that he was angry with her or she was angry with him. The moment his mouth was on hers, his past was gone as if it had never been. She wiped it all out with her taste and the way her mouth moved under his. The stroke of her tongue. The heat and fire.

  Deveau cleared his throat. Her fingers curled into fists in his shirt and she pulled away. He let her, only because if he didn't there was going to be an altogether different type of scene right there in the street and Blythe was no exhibitionist. He wouldn't care; the woman was his and as far as he was concerned, the entire world needed to know it.

  She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, her gaze avoiding his. She'd kissed him back, and there was no denying that fact. She hadn't been passive at all, but then, she never had been. Blythe was a woman who knew what she wanted, and she matched him fire for fire. She ducked around him to put Jackson between them.

  "Your wedding ring, Blythe. Put it on." For some reason he couldn't let that go. It hurt not to see it on her finger.

  She raised her chin. "I lost it."

  She was lying to him. Totally lying.

  "Put it on," he repeated and stalked to his bike. "Ride with Absinthe," he snapped to Alena.

  She nodded and sauntered over to Absinthe's bike, swinging one slim leg over to fit herself easily behind Absinthe's back.

  Blythe made a sound that had him spinning around. Was she weeping? He couldn't see. She was walking away, her back to him. She was so damned beautiful he wanted to rush after her, throw her over his shoulder and carry her off. They could work out whatever problems they had if they were alone. In bed. Anywhere alone. Instead of doing what every cell in his body demanded, he threw his leg over his bike and started the engine. All the while, his gaze was on his wife. She didn't turn around, didn't look back. She thought it was over. Little did she know, he was back to stay and he was going to be in her life permanently.

  Blythe heard the roar as all eight motorcycles started up. She desperately wanted to look at him one more time. Viktor. She thought she'd never see him again. Never. She'd been so in love with him. She'd felt as if she'd come to life, really started living, when she first met him.

  She touched her lips, still tingling from his kiss. Her entire body was on fire. From the moment she'd met him, he'd been able to do that when no one else ever had. Tears burned behind her eyes but she refused to cry. Not in front of everyone. Growing up, she'd always been reserved, very private, and she was even more so as an adult.

  Her father had died of cancer when she was barely five. Her mother had become a secret binge drinker. Blythe had learned to take care of her, to make grocery lists and even cook at an early age. She didn't confide in anyone, not even her friends or cousins. It felt like a betrayal. The alcohol had changed her mother from sweet and funny to bitter and violent. And then she met Ray Langton.

  Jackson fell into step on one side of her, Jonas on the other. They were silent as they went down the sidewalk with her. She walked quickly, not daring to look at either of them, especially Jonas. He was married to her first cousin, Hannah Drake, and she really had known him since she was a child. She hadn't lived in Sea Haven, but they visited often if her mother wasn't drinking. She could feel concern for her pouring off of Jonas, but to his credit, he waited for her to speak.

  She made the effort. "He's a Prakenskii."

  "I met him earlier in the day at the State Park," Jackson said. "Seems nice enough. Tough, but then Ilya is tough."

  She forced herself to look at the deputy. He was married to another first cousin, Elle, the youngest of the Drake sisters. "I heard you'd gotten home. I hope your honeymoon was wonderful." Hers had been. She still dreamt of it. Days and nights of paradise with Viktor. She hadn't known life could be so good. He made her feel beautiful and intelligent and bold. She had often wondered, over the last few years, how much--if any--of the things he did and said were true.

  "We cut it short. Elle needed to get back to Sea Haven. We got home on the weekend, and I had to go right back to work. You should stop in and see her."

  She kept walking. She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to keep moving or she'd feel hurt so intense she might drop to the sidewalk in front of everyone.

  "I'll do that. Have you had time to meet . . . the others?" How did one delicately put to Jackson that all the Prakenskii brothers were living on the farm? All of them, including Lev. He'd been undercover when Elle Drake had been taken by a human trafficking ring. He hadn't saved her.

  "No."

  Just one word, but then Jackson Deveau was a man of few words.

  "Honey, you're going to have to talk to me about this man you claim is your husband. Prakenskii or not, he's a dangerous man. He's not wearing colors, but I'd bet my last dollar he's in a motorcycle club," Jonas said, making it a half question, half statement.

  She shook her head. She wasn't going to cry in front of either man, nor would she betray Viktor, as much as she'd like to. No one had ever hurt her the way he had. No one. She'd practically worshipped him. Still, she couldn't bring herself to say one word against him--not to Jonas or Jackson.

  "There isn't anything to say."

  The two men exchanged a look over her head. She wasn't short and she saw it. The speculation. The interest. In Jonas she saw concern and sympathy. It was impossible to read Jackson. She stopped short. They'd walked all the way to her sister Judith's gift shop. She sold her kaleidoscopes as well as the smaller items of blown glass Lissa, another sister, made. Lissa was fast becoming famous for her chandeliers, particularly in Europe where they were sought after. Judith was famous for her paintings and her kaleidoscopes. What was she famous for? She choked back a sob. Screwups. She was world famous for screwups.

  "Thanks for walking me here," she managed to whisper, and yanked open the door to her sister's shop. At once the soothing scent of orange and vanilla greeted her. She all but ran into the shop, hoping the two men would take the hint and go away. She needed to be alone. She needed her sisters. She needed to cry her eyes out and rebuild her defenses.

  She could still feel his mouth on hers. Smell him. His scent. She practically ran down the aisle, threaded her way through the tourists examining various items and pushed her way into the back room. Someone was working behind the counter, but it wasn't Judith. Judith had to be in the back, and she needed her desperately.

  "Blythe?" Judith straightened from where she was pulling out a roll of Bubble Wrap to secure it onto a spool. Even her back room was immaculate.

  Judith was tall like Blythe, but that was where the resemblance ended. Her hair was long and board straight, black as a raven's wing and extremely shiny. Her eyes were dark and mysterious, very exotic. She'd inherited her hair and coloring from her Japanese mother. Her sparkling personality always drew people to her. Blythe had met her in group counseling, a closed group for women who had lost a loved one to a violent crime and for whatever reasons felt guilty.

  Judith frowned and stepped toward her. "Honey, what's wrong?" There was genuine concern and maybe a hint of alarm. Blythe couldn't blame her. Blythe had the reputation of always being calm, very serene.

  Blythe threw herself into Judith's arms and gave herself permission to cry. Once she started, she couldn't stop. It wasn't a little bit of tears; it was a storm. She hadn't allowed herself to cry like that since her mother died. She'd even blamed Viktor for her mother's death, although she knew he wasn't responsible for any of the things that had happened after he'd gone. She wanted to blame him for everything.

  Judith remained silent. She just held her, letting her cry. Blythe was afraid she'd never stop. Why did Viktor have to look so good? Why did her heart choose him? He'd left her. Used her and left her. Without a single word. No phone call. Nothing. She didn't care if he was a Prakenskii and she loved every one of his brother
s. She wasn't going to love him or forgive him. And that woman. Who was that woman?

  "She was so beautiful." She managed to get the words out, making them semi-intelligible, but then the storm was worse than ever.

  Judith handed her several tissues. "All right, honey, you're going to make yourself sick. I'm going to tell them up front that I have to leave, and then I'm driving you home. We'll make a cup of tea and talk there."

  Blythe nodded and turned away from her, covering her face with her hands and crouching down on the floor. She was there until Judith came and tugged at her arm. She followed her out the back and slipped into the passenger side of Judith's convertible. Thankfully, she had the top up.

  "So tell me, honey," Judith invited as she drove through the village toward Highway 1.

  "Look at me. Just look at me, Judith. I'm a mess," Blythe wailed, knowing she was on the verge of hysteria. She was never hysterical. Ask anyone. She was the epitome of calm and cool. "I'm wearing a tank top and ripped jeans. A sweater. I look terrible. I'm not even wearing makeup." She wiped at the tears and clenched the tissue in the middle of her fists. "I want to pound him into the ground."

  Judith glanced at her but Blythe turned her face away, ashamed she was out of control. She didn't lose control. Her mother did that. She had promised herself she would never be a shrieking shrew, and yet here she was. Viktor was responsible for that as well. Her left palm itched but she refused to scratch it. She was going to a tattoo place to see if they could laser that mark off of her.

  "When a woman sits on the back of a man's bike, do you know what she is, if they're members of a motorcycle club? His old lady, that's what. Especially a gorgeous woman. She should have been all windblown, her hair matted and heavy makeup, something awful. Just one ugly thing about her, but no, she looked like a million dollars, Judith."

  Judith turned from the highway into the private drive leading to their farm. It was several hundred acres now, as the Prakenskii brothers had bought up the adjoining land around the original farm. Each of the women Blythe called a sister of the heart had their own five acres where they built their homes. Everything else was shared land. All of them contributed in some way, whether it was farming or through their small businesses.