I stare at her, heart pounding and jaw locked. I have no fucking words.
But when she walks away with her head held high, something panicked snaps inside me. I find myself stalking after her, gripping her wrist to keep her with me, even though I know I can’t afford to care about this nonsense.
She turns, hair flowing like a mass of molten chocolate behind her.
“If you have no heart left, then why did you let me kiss you? Hmm? What wasthatall about?” I ask her.
“I don’t know,” she answers, and it’s my turn to flinch at her words. “But I wanted it, and so did you. Even though I don’t have the answer, I’m not going to cower from voicing the truth: Iwantedyou to kiss me. Yes! So what? If you weren’t such a prick, I’d even consider repeating the experience.”
My eyes widen, both at her straightforward attitude that’s totally out of the fucking blue and at the things she tells me.
She lets out a bittersweet laugh. “You threaten anybody who insults me, help me through panic attacks and nightmares. You…you…killed that guy in the goddamn alley for ripping up a dress I’m never going to need again. And then you have theaudacityto come home and lie to my face that it means nothing?”
My eyes roam her face, wanting to burn the fucking house down. This woman—seven years younger—is wiser and calmer than I could ever be in this situation. And she’s fighting for me. For us.
The problem, however, is that she has no idea what I’ve done, why her love would be wasted on someone like me.
I step closer, making her lift those focused eyes. “Very well, then. I won’t pretend the kiss didn’t affect me, but that’s exactly why this needs to stop,” I say.
Yanking her wrist free, hurt flashes in her haze as she says, “Funny. For someone who isn’t scared of literally anything, cowering at the thought of kissing your wife is quite something, isn’t it?”
With that, she turns her back to me and leaves the dining room, heading for the staircase.
23
Mikhail
Twenty-two years ago
That same night, Ekaterina fastened her silk robe, put on a designer fur coat, and dragged Mikhail out of the house. His small wrist hurt in her tight grip, the wind lapping at his tear-streaked face. But he said nothing. For whatever reason, she was taking him down the small road behind the mansion back to where his brother was.
She wasn’t going to free him—that, he knew. The determination in her steps only made his stomach churn. Something bad was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it—no father to cry out to for help, no guards to stop this woman and her madness. When the Pakhan was away on business, Ekaterina was their master.
They reached the small wooded area near the root cellar, and the men waiting there stood aside.
“Bring him out,” Ekaterina ordered. “And get some chains.”
“Please,” Mikhail pleaded, the word rare on his lips. “Leave him alone. I’ll—I’ll stop coming here.” A lie, of course, but a necessary one. Not that she would believe him.
The door opened, and two guards descended into the dark cellar, their heavy combat boots thudding against the stairs until the sound became muffled. Mikhail waited with his heart in his throat, making himself sick with anxiety. There was nothing worse than seeing the person you loved be on the receiving end of unfathomable abuse and not being able to stop it.
Eventually, Wolf’s grunts speared the silence.
The guards threw him to the wet, rooted ground, and because he was so malnourished, he didn’t find the strength to fight back. Mikhail noticed a split lip, and a bunch of fresh bites had appeared on his face—the blood there was still glistening under the moonlight. He wanted to vomit.
“Strip his back,” Ekaterina’s voice thundered. “Whip him until he passes out.”
Mikhail yanked on his wrist, but his mother’s grip only tightened, her nails biting into his skin.
“Stop! Just stop!” he cried out. “I said I’ll stop coming here. What don’t you understand?!”
“And I said I’ll make you care about your future. One day, you’ll thank me.” She smiled down at him, but her eyes were frowning, the smile cruel and unsettling. “I said. Whip. Him.”
Wolf didn’t cry when he heard her words, though he did find the strength to look up. His eyes were dead, but his lips twitched like a promise, like a future threat. “If I were you, I’d kill me tonight,” he said and left it at that.
Mikhail knew what that meant. He knew because he felt what his brother felt, the rage and need for vengeance, for spilling blood. He hadn’t even been initiated into the Bratva yet—hadn’t made his first kill—but tonight, he felt like he belongedalready. Like the killer instinct had crawled under his skin, never intending to leave again. At just eight years old, he welcomed it and understood his place in this world at last.
When the first lash landed on Wolf’s back, he growled so loud, Mikhail felt it in his bones. Bits of skin flew everywhere. Mikhail blinked, shocked and paralyzed, before thrashing in his mother’s grasp.
