Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
But then he lets go as fast as he grabbed me. “Go.”
“How about your wound?” I realize I’m speaking breathily, almost too much so.
“Are you a doctor now?”
“No, but I can get you one.”
He narrows his eyes for a fraction of a second before they revert back to normal.
“Let me try to stop the bleeding first. Do you have a first aid kit somewhere?”
He nods down the hall and starts walking that way without paying me any attention. I end up following anyway because his wound is dripping on the hallway carpet and definitely ruining it.
Once we reach the last door, he pushes it open and slips inside, then switches on the light.
A large room with an en-suite bathroom comes into view. There’s a black leather seating area and a king-size bed on a high platform, but otherwise, it’s too sterile-looking.
Kirill sits on the bed and juts his chin to the side. “It’s in the bathroom. Make it quick.”
I nod and rush inside, then fetch the kit and come back. My feet falter when I find him unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing the hard ridges of his muscles before throwing it to the side.
There’s no doubt that Kirill’s physique was sculpted by a god. He’s not too bulky, nor too lean, but he has a perfect eight-pack and wide shoulders that fit his height.
Various tattoos swirl around his biceps and sides, giving him a darker edge. They’re different in shape and form, ranging from a skull to a gun, a knife, birds, and snakes.
It’s like his body is a map for these haunting images.
He places both hands on the bed and leans against them. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
I blink twice, then jog forward and nearly drop the kit in my haste. Through it all, Kirill watches me with no change in his expression, like a damn robot.
I try not to ogle his physique and tattoos as I sit beside him and start cleaning the wound. He doesn’t whine, wince, or express any discomfort, but then again, I didn’t expect him to.
Silence falls between us, short of any noise I make with my extremely careful movements. Despite my best efforts to act natural, I’m in a state of hyperawareness. My skin tingles, and my ears are so sensitive that they feel hotter with each passing second.
I’m almost sure it’s due to being in this setting with Kirill. Maybe I should’ve let him get a doctor and deal with the wound on his own, after all.
“Why do your family members hate you?” I blurt to dissolve the tension, then follow up with, “If you don’t mind telling me, of course.”
“Why does anyone hate? You’d probably have to ask them that.”
So he won’t answer. Got it.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I whisper, triggering my own feeling of emptiness for losing the only lead I had.
Unless he left some evidence behind? He seemed like the type of man who documented important things.
“I’m not.” Kirill stares at the ceiling, seeming lost in a world no one can reach.
I want to peek into this world. I want to witness a fraction of what a person like him thinks about. His brain must work differently from the rest of ours.
“He was old and sick and had to die one day. This is as good a day as any,” he continues.
He really doesn’t care, does he?
Not about the men who died because they followed him to Russia or about Nadia and Nicholas, who welcomed us into their home.
Not even about his own father.
No wonder he’s hated by every member of his family. Sometimes, I hate him, too.
I also hate that I’m indebted to him. Not that he’ll hold me accountable for it, but he has helped me multiple times, and I can’t just take without giving something in return.
“So what happens now?” I ask after I finish cleaning the blood.
“Now”—a slow smirk tilts his lips—“I take over the world, Sasha. And you’ll be right by my side.”
17
SASHA
Morozov is a big name around here.
When I chose to come to New York, I was fully aware that they’re an essential part of the Bratva. I just didn’t know how essential.
Turns out, they’re pillars of the entire organization and hold a prestigious position of power at the top. The demonstration of said power manifests itself in the sheer number of people who are attending the funeral, including the Pakhan.
It’s been three days since Roman Morozov’s death, and during this time of ‘grief,’ Kirill has been going out to meet people and making phone calls.
His father hadn’t yet been buried and he was already rekindling old relationships and basically crowning himself as the new leader.
I’ve been standing in the shadows while Kirill and his family members accept condolences. All except for Karina.
I saw her dressed in a black dress earlier, and her mother attempted to force her to come downstairs, but the girl literally ran to her room and locked the door.