Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“You’ll get back there. Patience.”
“Ah, something else you’ll teach me?” I ask with a playful smile.
Rafail grunts in response as he walks, and I hobble across a formal dining room. The polished table is covered in textbooks at one end, with coloring pencils and doodled-on papers scattered around them. It’s clear this room sees more homework and art projects than actual dinners. To the right of the table stands a sideboard with a few cases of sports drinks and soda.
“Careful,” Rafail says with a frown. “I told Rodion to put those away.” Shaking his head, he lifts a notebook. “And Zoya was supposed to get this project in yesterday. She’s been distracted.”
“How old is Zoya?”
“Seventeen.”
He’s been her guardian since she was only a small child. No wonder he has a soft spot for her.
No wonder she’s as timid as a little mouse, poor girl.
“Are those her schoolbooks?”
“Yes. She’s got a big exam coming up.”
Just then, voices ring out from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of a scuffle—thumps, grunts, and a clatter that makes my heart skip.
“Jesus,” Rafail mutters, striding toward the commotion.
As soon as we round the corner, we find two of his brothers locked in a wrestling match, grappling and shoving each other dangerously close to the counter where a bowl of dough sits, perfectly risen and ready to bake. Zoya’s precious bread.
Without a word, Rafail steps in and grabs them each by the collar, yanking them apart as if they weigh nothing. He gives them both a quick, firm shake, his glare cutting through their adrenaline-fueled grins.
“Alright,” he growls. “Which one of you needs to get your ass kicked first?”
The brothers exchange glances, their faces suddenly sheepish. From behind him, someone I haven’t yet met peeks out, barely containing a snicker.
“Well, Yana?” Rafail prompts, raising an eyebrow at her. “Who’s getting it first?”
Yana crosses her arms, smirking. “I’d start with the one who nearly knocked over the bread.”
Both brothers freeze, eyes darting to the delicate bowl of dough. They gulp in unison, and Rafail gives them one last shake before finally letting go.
“I brought my wife down to breakfast,” he warns, “behave yourselves.”
They’re hardly children, but the brothers quickly back away from each other, Semyon’s cold gaze still fixed on Rodion, Rodion’s jaw clenched. Rafail just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he straightens his shirt.
Yikes. He had his work cut out for him with this crew.
“Sit down,” he barks before he turns to Zoya. “Did you forget to hand in your assignment?”
Zoya flits around the kitchen, straightening things out, and doesn’t meet his eyes. “About that,” she says as she places a crock of butter on the table and a loaf of bread. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to help me with it. There’s all these questions about… well, family history and stuff.”
Rafail stands taller and crosses his arms on his chest. “What do they want to know?”
As they talk over past history, someone clears their throat. Yana stands in front of me. A young woman a few years older than Zoya but younger than Rafail, she smiles softly. Her presence has a calm, almost regal quality, with a confidence that’s both subtle and undeniable. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, framing her face. I notice the faintest trace of makeup—a flick of mascara, magnifying her electric-blue eyes, and a hint of pink lip gloss—matching her understated elegance.
Her eyes meet mine with an openness that catches me off guard. There’s a quiet strength in her gaze like she’s weathered storms that only she fully understands. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a glint of gold on her finger catches my attention.
Is that a wedding ring?
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says, her voice gentle yet unwavering. I’m struck by the warmth and steadiness in her tone, and there’s something about her that feels both grounded and fiercely resilient. “My brothers have told me all about you, but Rafail’s been possessive, hasn’t he?”
My brothers. For some reason, it makes my heart ache. He says I don’t have siblings, but I know that to be… a lie.
I did. I do. And I’ll find them.
“I don’t remember who you’ve met or who you remember,” Rafail says.
I shake my head. I had too many meds and was confused and disoriented.
“A proper introduction would probably be a good idea,” I tell him with a shrug.
“Right. This is Semyon,” Rafail says, gesturing toward the man I encountered upstairs. He stands just a step back, arms crossed, his gaze dissecting me with unnerving precision.
Semyon has the sharp, chiseled features of Rafail but wears them with a colder detachment. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his expression clinical as if he’s calculating exactly who I am and what I might mean to his brother. His eyes are ice-blue, unblinking and methodical, and he gives off an aura that’s almost surgical—analyzing, cataloging, already figuring out the quickest way to manipulate or dismantle me if it ever came to that.