“It’s okay.” I show her the smile I always wear when she thinks Dad will hurt me.
It doesn’t matter how much I try to shield her from it—she’s extremely bright and knows exactly who’s behind the fresh bruises on my body, even when I say it’s because I fell or had a fight.
Her fingers linger for a few seconds before she lets go and reluctantly leaves the room.
As the door closes behind her, I tighten my body. I wouldn’t put it past this prick to hit me even when I’m injured.
Time alone with my father feels like a death match I’m destined to lose. There’s no satisfaction, no high, no familiar rush of bone cracking under my fist or the metallic taste of blood.
My muscles coil tight, my brain snapping into survival mode.
I used to wonder why my father despises me so much—why he always looks at me like I’m nothing more than a thorn in his side.
I’m never smart enough, strong enough, good enough.
Just notenough.
Forget about love. I don’t think he even likes me.
The only fatherly love I’ve ever known came from my maternal grandfather during summers at his vast estate in the North Caucasus. He taught me to ride horses, to shoot, to chase the wind as if tomorrow didn’t exist.
But he died too soon, and I was thrown back into the brutal reality of a father who would trade me away in a heartbeat if he could.
“How did I get back home?” I ask, my voice losing its mocking edge, because I don’t think they pumped me with enough painkillers, and my side is throbbing. I don’t want to be dear old Dad’s punching bag on top of that.
He stands tall, his hands in his pockets, his expression solemn, the lines of age around his mouth looking more shadowy. Yaroslav has always looked and seemed like a wall I could never break through.
A fortress no one has ever been allowed to enter—not even his family.
“The more important question is, how the hell did this happen? Not only do you screw up the camp, but you also get involved in this?”
“Sorry, didn’t know being shot at could be avoided, or I would’ve done my best to avert the crisis.”
He strides toward me, and I lift both hands in a motion of surrender. “Wait…fuck…I don’t know. I think it was some other faction who did it…”
“Does that other faction have bases in the heart of the New York branch?
“New York?”
“Yes. My intel tells me that’s where it originated from.”
My eyes widen even as pain throbs in my side and sweat trickles across my brow.
“No way…” I choke on a cough, gritting out a grunt as the sharp pain digs deeper into my side. “Why would they want to kill their…heir?”
“They didn’t, did they? You’re the only idiot who got shot.”
My lips part, feeling dry and chapped, but I still shake my head.
This doesn’t make sense.
No matter how smart Vaughn is, there’s no way he could’ve anticipated that I’d take a bullet for him.
“If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have administered first aid and practically saved me,” I rasp to my father, each word torn from me as pain claws deeper.
The man who gave me life watches me struggle yet doesn’t so much as tell the medical team to dull the agony with painkillers.
Again, not a first.
