Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“It’s all right now.” He looked at me awkwardly, like he didn’t know what to do with me, as he brought me into the apartment. With a gentleman-like determination in his eyes, he sat me down at the kitchen table and propped my leg up, lifting my ankle tenderly in his large hands.
“Not broken,” he said quietly. “Sprained, probably. You’ll need to wrap this.”
“Where did Eli go?” I didn’t want my brother here. I didn’t want him to intrude on us. This moment felt private, special. Sacred.
“He had to run an errand,” Semyon said cryptically. Now I was the one narrowing my eyes.
“My mother asked that you not involve him, Semyon.”
Semyon’s eyes flashed to mine before he schooled his features. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
He shook his head. “I had nothing to do with this, Anya. If you only knew—”
“Knew that you’re Bratva? Do you think I’m so dumb that I don’t know?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No, of course you know that. I mean, if only you knew how hard I was trying to get your brother out of trouble—” He stopped, his mouth snapping shut like he had said too much. What?
“Now, back to your injuries. I’m only going to ask one more time.” His blue eyes held mine captive, and my heart ached under the intensity. “Are you telling me the truth?”
I swallowed, and for one crazy, wild moment, I imagined telling him that somebody had hurt me. That I was bullied. No one had ever looked at me like this before, and it satisfied a strange desire in me that I didn’t understand.
I wanted to see how he’d respond.
“I’m telling you the truth. I fell.”
“If you’re lying to me, Anya—” My heart thumped madly. But he didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m not,” I said quietly.
It was then that I noticed how his jaw had firmed and how the stubble on his chin had grown darker. Up close, I could see the shift in the color of his eyes—brilliant at times, lighter at others, framed in dark, thick lashes that would’ve been almost feminine on any other man.
I had never noticed any of those things before.
I did now.
“I’m not lying,” I whispered vehemently. “Are you?”
“I’m not hungry.” I pick at a slice of plain bread, my appetite gone. I haven’t eaten and need to, but the reality of my situation and the pang of loss hits my belly.
It’s exhausting keeping up with my anger toward him. I’m not an angry person. I rarely lose my temper. My mother used to say I had the longest fuse of anyone she’d ever met, but when someone finally got to the end of it, watch out.
Maybe she was right. I don’t want to think of my mother now because the most painful memories I have of her involve the man—or monster—sitting right across the table from me.
Semyon prides himself on telling the truth, no matter how brutal, but he lied to me outside his home before we came inside. He said he hadn’t changed. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Because I remember.
I remember lying by the creek, side by side, when we were kids. It was the only time I ever saw him relax, surrounded by the hush of wind in the trees above us, my brother lazily casting his fishing line time and again and never catching a bite. I can still hear the sound of the water trickling and birds singing and fluttering past us.
He says he hasn’t changed, but I know the truth: Semyon was a boy I trusted and grew into a man I hated.
“Eat,” he says, pushing a platter of food toward me. Unsurprisingly, everything in his home is sharp lines and muted tones—steel, glass, and dark, varnished wood. Everything is cold and precise. Immaculate. There isn’t a shred of warmth or personal touch to be seen.
Semyon frowns, considering me. Likely trying to decide whether or not this is a hill to die on. Finally, he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He might see this as a silent rebellion against his wealth and control, but I’m tired, and it’s late.
Stefan would have come home from school. He meets me at the bakery and tells me about his day, swinging his legs while sitting on the counter, messily eating whatever treat I let him pick from the day’s seconds. He loves to look over the trays of baked goods and find the ones with imperfections before he stuffs them in his mouth.
I feel a little guilty looking at the lavish display in front of us. The spread is a feast of Russian tradition—bowls of borscht, their rich, ruby tops crested with sour cream, golden pirozhki stuffed with savory fillings, and plates of blini filled with smoked salmon and caviar.
Stefan would whoop with delight at this and eat until he couldn’t stuff another bite in his mouth.