"And you brought someone home?" She taps her foot and crosses her arms over her chest. "Rumor has it that it’s his sister!" She says sister with a screech, and I wince at the pitch.
"She gave him up and wanted protection." Not quite true, but not a lie either.
Mila blinks, shocked. "What kind of person gives up her brother to a Bratva Pakhan?"
"One who serves her Pakhan and not her disrespectful family," I counter, wishing I’d had another drink after all.
Stefan appears at the door. "The housekeeper dug these out, will they do?" he holds out his arms with various items of clothing draped over them.
I heave a sigh, and Mila’s face lights up. "I’m sure they’ll be fine for now; I’ll take them to her."
"Whatever you’re planning, Mila, don’t!" I know my warning has fallen on deaf ears, and pinch the bridge of my nose as I count slowly to ten.
Matilda
Morning reaches me slowly.
Light filters through unfamiliar curtains, pale and quiet, brushing across the ceiling. My breath moves in and out without effort, my body awake before my thoughts catch up. Sleep never stood a chance. Too much happened in the night.
Thoughts of my family creep in. What did they do with my brother’s body? Are my siblings okay? What are my mother and father doing in the aftermath of the night?
Sadness finally catches up to me with a sharp pain in my chest. I force myself to get out of bed and pad through to the en-suite.
Minutes later, the room is filled with steam as water drums against my skin until my muscles soften and my head clears enough to function. I don’t let myself cry. I made a decision. I chose myself for the first time in my life. God only knows no one ever chose me before.
There’s a knock on the door as I wrap a fluffy towel around my torso. Nerves bubble in my stomach, but I go through and open the door anyway.
"Matilda?" The voice is soft, feminine. "It’s Mila, Gennady’s sister." She says it like it’s a question, slightly raised on the word "sister." Testing whether that would help me trust her or not, I suppose.
I open the door and smile out of politeness more than anything.
She stands there with an easy smile and a stack of clothes piled in her arms. Her dark hair is pulled back. A bruise blooms high on her cheekbone, purple at the edges, impossible to ignore. Her eye is puffy and swollen, but not all the way closed.
Nausea rolls in my stomach…my brother did that.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," she replies, already stepping inside. "I brought you something to wear. They’re… well-loved." Amusement curves her mouth. "Temporary. At least until your own things arrive."
Relief spreads through me faster than I expect. "Thank you."
She waves it off like it’s nothing. "Trust me, you won’t be thanking me when you’re wearing clothes from the fifties. The housekeeper is a hoarder and a big believer in make-do-and-mend. So, yeah…" she trails off with a soft gesture to the pile of clothes that she dropped on the bed.
I dig out a T-shirt that’s at least three sizes too big and pair of jeans that have worn through at the knees. Finally, a hoody with a rip in the elbow and emblazoned with a band I’ve never heard of, but it covers me up and hides that I don’t have a bra.
My gaze drifts back to her face. To the bruise.
A breath steadies me before I speak. "You’re the woman my brother hurt."
Stillness settles between us.
"Yes." She straightens a little when she says it. Like it takes courage, but she has the spine.
"I’m sorry." The words come clean and certain. "He was cruel. To me, too. Just… quiet about it."
Mila exhales, slow and controlled. "Kindness was always conditional with him. It came with expectations. I’m sorry my brother killed him."
Anger coils low in my stomach, sharp and familiar. "Don’t be. I won’t miss him," I say. "Not for a second. And I hope you won’t either. He isn’t worth it."
