I balance my house keys in my fingers and unlock the front door, nodding awkwardly at the guys watching from their dark vehicles as I make my way in. As soon as I hear them drive off down the road, I wander to the window, examining the empty street.
Before I left, Mikhail told me he’d need to pull in all of his resources to manage the explosion, so I’m not necessarily surprised to see a lack of security details hovering across my street. Still, after being so meticulously monitored for the past few weeks, the absence feels strange.
I grab a bag of chips from one of the cupboards and collapse on the couch, reviewing the past few hours in my head all over again.
My fingers absentmindedly brush against my lips, which are still swollen from earlier. I’ve never been kissed like that. Ever. It was liketime stood still, like every touch happened in the space between seconds, and every moan lasted a lifetime. I’ve always had a difficult time not overthinking with my partners, worrying where my hands are, what my mouth was doing, the sounds I made. I’ve never had that issue with Mikhail. I don’t even remember where my hands were or the noises I made because all I could feel was him,overloading every single sense.
That first time on his penthouse balcony, I was too distracted to pull the kiss apart and study it, lulled into a state of comfort by Mikhail’s deep voice and intoxicating scent. And then everything went to hell, and I didn’t even have time to analyze my own feelings, let alone overthink them.
My fingers trace the path of kisses he’d left on my neck, the echoes of touch heating in their wake. My panties, still damp from before, now brush all of my oversensitized skin with discomforting clarity. Fuck, what I would give to have him kiss me like that again. To slide his leg into that perfect spot and pull my body into his.
I let out a frustrated groan, leaning my head back in defeat.
I’m in such deep, unending shit.
After spending the rest of the afternoon agonizing over my growing feelings for the hot Bratva leader I’ve managed to get all twisted up with, a long, steamy shower serves as the perfect reset. When I finally dry off and slip into a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt, I finally feel like my head is screwed back on straight after the confused, needy mess I was when I left Mikhail’s.
I plop down into my desk chair, pulling out some practice problems I had set aside from earlier in the week. Maybe my plan of whisking my mother off to some cabin in the woods with a “no boys allowed” sign pinned to the front door won’t work out too well, but I’m still proud of this degree, and I’m passionate about how far I’ve come from that bewildered, financially illiterate girl who was so easily taken advantage of by the men in her life.
I’m still thinking about what I can do to help my mom, scribbling mindlessly in the margin of my paper, when the front door slams with a deafening thud.
What the fuck?
I’m out of my chair, about to investigate, before the cause of the sound comes running into my room, almost bulldozing me down in her hurry.
“What the hell, Veronica?” I yell, jumping back to avoid the head-on collision.
“I fucked up, Cassandra. I really fucked up.” She never stops moving, turning to pace a small, circular track in my room. I glance up at her face, noting the dilation in her eyes, the dark circles framing them.
“Slow down, what’s going on? Are you okay?” I ask, edging closer to her like I’m facing off with an unclipped grenade. She looks like she could go off at any second, and I don’t think we’re close enough to justify falling into her crossfire.
Before she can respond, a pounding sound fills the house as the door rattles on its hinges, causing both of us to practically jump out of our skin.
Trauma is always so damn inconvenient, always pillaging your head in the worst possible moments.
The vibrating, insistent sound, growing in effort with each strike against the door, takes me right back to a very different time.
The open, brightly lit room surrounding me darkens at the edges, shadows creeping toward the corners of my vision. The pounding of wood morphs into my stepfather’s fists against the closet, each strike intended to scare the hopeless, terrified seventeen-year-old curled up inside.
A violent crack of wood snaps me from the memory in the cruelest way, making me instantly aware of the trouble lingering outside the door.
“Veronica! You can’t just steal from us, you fucking thief!” A voice echoes through the cracks in the door, yelling in a deep, angry tone.
I look toward my roommate, eyes wide with disbelief.
“What the fuck did you do?” I whisper in her direction, grabbing her wrist and shaking her when she doesn’t answer me.
“Nothing, Cass. I swear, I don’t know why he’s here!”
“Well, whatever the reason, he’s damn near close to breaking down our door! We need to call?—”
“No!”
Her stifling interjection leaves me shocked as her wrist pulls fast from my grip. A follow-up question is on the tip of my tongue, but a shrill scream is what ends up ripping out from the base of my throat when the final thwack sends the door flying open on its hinges.
Standing tall in the open frame is a huge, beefy white guy, knuckles dripping blood from his exertion.
And he looks pissed.
