Page 134 of Unexpected Heroine

Her tears might as well be blades, stabbing me deeper with each one she sheds.

She deserves happiness. All the time.

Nothing but warmth and joy—because that’s what she is.

Thick grains of salt are shoved into the gaping wounds of my soul when she finally quavers, “He did show up.”

Fuck. What did he do to her?

After moving my laptop onto the floor, I pat my thighs, beckoning her. “Can you crawl up here without hurting yourself so I can hold you? If you can’t, I’ll spoon you. I need you closer.”

At this point, I’m unsure if I need to hold her to comfort her or myself.

Perhaps it’s both.

Nodding, she moves swiftly. “I don’t care if it hurts.”

Sweet angel.

Watching her closely, I notice no flinches or outward show of pain as she shimmies onto my lap.

No. All Lettie’s agony resides on the inside, likely overpowering the bruised ribs and other injuries.

Her thighs spread to straddle me, and she rests her arms on my shoulders.

The nerves radiating from her are palpable.

With my hands skimming up and down her back, she takes a few calming breaths. Her delicate fingers tug and stroke the hairline at my nape.

“He was the first one who,” she pauses but holds my eye contact, “assaulted me.”

My tongue sits heavy in my mouth, weighed down with lead.

I can’t swallow.

Can barely breathe.

Her tragic admission lodges a lump in my throat, threatening to shut my windpipe.

Not only is Lenkov profiting off the trafficking, his son is partaking in it.

I don’t know why it’s such a surprise. After all, I heard the story about Nikolai Lenkov impregnating Savin’s sister, one of their captives. The rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Morbid curiosity, coupled with a burgeoning desire to fuel my blood lust, spurs me to prod her some. “He likes to be first?”

Her chin wobbles, and a deluge of tears fills her eyes. In no time at all, they overflow and pour down her cheeks in rivulets. She buries her face into my neck and cries, her shoulders shaking with the force of her silent sobs.

Despite not intending my question to be any more upsetting than the rest of this conversation, I’m startled and a touch bewildered by her drastic and woeful reaction.

All I can do is hold her.

That’s it.

Could anything ever ease such brutal agony?

My vision grows cloudy with unshed tears. In the back of my mind, I hear my father’s not-so-veiled threats, reminding me that boys don’t cry. And if they do, there are consequences.

Painful ones.

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