I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As we start walking, his hand stays where it is. Like it fucking belongs there.
40
Dimitri
Iwatch Wren rip those drunkmudaksa new asshole. She’s all piss and vinegar, this one. Even after the shit that went down with her old man, she’s still ready to fuck someone up. It stirs something in my gut, seeing her like this. Makes my cock twitch…
Yebat’, focus, you durak.
She turns back to me, and for a split second, I see it—that flicker of doubt in her eyes. She buries it quick, but not quick enough. She’s off-kilter. Fuck, so am I, if I’m not bullshitting myself.
“We should…” she starts, then clamps her mouth shut. I wait, watching her chew on her bottom lip. But she doesn’t spit it out.
My hand’s still on her waist, burning through her shirt. It feels right there, like it’s fucking molded to her curves. But I know better than to push my luck with thissuka.
“We should get you home,” I grunt, keeping my voice low. “It’s late.”
She nods, silent as the fucking grave. As we start walking, I keep my paw where it is. She doesn’t shrug it off, which I take as a good fucking sign.
The streets are dead this time of night, just the occasional piece of shit car sputtering by. Wren leads us down a few side streets, each one looking more like apizdathan the last. I’ve been in some shithole neighborhoods, but this… this is next levelgovno.
We stop in front of a building that looks like it’s been through a fucking war. Paint peeling like sunburned skin, walls tagged up like a prison cell, and I swear tobogI just saw a rat big enough to wear a fucking saddle.
Wren hesitates, and I catch something in her eyes.Blyat, is that embarrassment? That’s new. She’s never given two shits what anyone thinks.
“I’ll walk you up,” I say, not asking for permission.
She bristles, straightening up like she’s got a steel rod up her ass. “I’m not a little princess, D. I don’t need you to protect me.”
I snort, then shove her toward the building’s entrance. “I know, Wren. I’ve seen you slice off threekhuy’sdicks before. I was there, remember?”
She freezes for a second, then lets out a laugh. It’s a real one, not that bittersukasound I’m used to hearing from her. It goes straight to myyaitsa.
We climb the stairs, the whole fucking building groaning like it’s in pain. There’s a stench in the air, a cocktail of mold and cheap-ass cooking oil, and something that smells like death warmed over. Through walls thin as paper, I hear a TV blasting, somemudaksscreaming at each other, a baby wailing its head off.
We stop at unit 3C. Wren fumbles with her keys, the lock fighting her before finally giving up with a screech that could wake the dead.
She steps inside, and I can see the tension leaving her shoulders. Home turf. She turns, probably expecting me to leave, but I follow her in.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses, keeping her voice low.
“Making sure everything’s okay at home,” I say, my eyes already scanning the place.
It’s tiny.
So tiny that I feel like a bull in a china shop just standing here. The living room’s barely big enough for a ratty couch and a TV that’s seen better days. There’s a kitchenette off to one side, and I can see a small dining table with a couple of covered plates on it.
Before Wren can throw me out—and I can see she’s gearing up to do just that—a door opens. A girl stumbles out, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She’s maybe seventeen, but those eyes… fuck, they’ve seen too much. Long, tangled hair frames a face that’s still soft with baby fat, but there’s a hardness in her jaw that doesn’t belong on a kid.
I know who she is without Wren saying a word. Emma. Wren’s half-sister. The one she’d do anything to protect. She stops dead when she sees me, her mouth dropping open.
“Wren?” she says, her eyes darting between us. “Who’s this?”
I can practically feel Wren tensing up beside me. “Em, this is… a friend, D. D, this is my sister, Emma.”
Emma’s eyebrows shoot up so fast I think they might fly off her face. “A friend? Since when do you have friends? Especially not…” She trails off, waving a hand at me like I’m some kind of circus freak.
“Especially not what?” I ask, keeping my voice flat.
