Page 10 of The Cute Psycho

He doesn't understand.

Yet for all his disgust toward our extracurricular activities, he's the only one aside from Vanya that doesn't revile me. He can stare me in the eye and challenge me, without fearing I'd slit his throat in a moment of fickleness. He can talk and argue with me, about nothing and everything.

He doesn't realize just how much those little things matter to me. Not when people run away from me the moment I try to open my mouth to talk.

"This should be it," the tattoo artist sighs, leaning back to examine his work. "You need to be careful now." He proceeds to instruct me on how to take care of them.

Soon, Vanya and I are out the door and heading back home. The tattoo shop isn't too far from our house, but we take a detour as we sneak down some of the more populated streets of Brighton Beach.

"Wait!" Vanya exclaims as she hurries toward one of the shop windows, looking quite awestruck as she gazes at the dresses on the mannequins.

"You know Father will neverlet you wear something like that," I say, amused, as I nod toward the length of the dress. It barely reaches above the knee, and Father has a steadfast rule for all his daughters. Nothing that shows too much skin.

Vanya sighs in frustration, her eyes darting between her drab mid-thigh dress and the one in the shop's window.

"Do you think he'll ever let me wear something like that?" she asks in a rather hopeless tone.

"I doubt it," I answer honestly.

Being the Pakhan of the Brighton Beach Bratva means that Father's image must be impeccable. That extends to his own family—especially his daughters. The standards are different, of course, for his sons.

The women of the family must be demure, with a shy disposition and malleable enough to their male counterparts.

The men, on the other hand, show their strength through the amount of violence they can wreak on their enemies, the ruthlessness with which they lead.

As far as that goes, I'm Father's model child, even though I know that deep down he's terrified of me. Vanya, on the other hand, is the opposite of everything they stand for, and so far she's managed to hide her dark side well. No one besides me knows what she's truly capable of.

Luckily, my father has my other two sisters, who are the epitome of decorum—sweet and demure.

"Damn it," she curses softly, her eyes still focused on that piece of fabric.

Without even thinking, I grab her hand, going inside the shop and filling her arms with stacks of clothes.

"Go on, try them," I urge her when her eyes widen in question.

"Really?" Her voice is small as she asks and I just nod. "But we don't have money..."

"We do. I do, so don't worry," I assure her, leading her toward the changing rooms.

Her lips tremble slightly and she launches herself at me, her arms going around my neck in a hug.

I close my eyes, relishing the small gesture.

No one touches me.

No one dares, anyway. It's little moments like these that remind me I'm human, with human needs.

When was the last time someone hugged me?

I... don't remember.

Has anyone ever hugged me?

"Go!" I say again, shaking myself from my musings, happy I'd decided to do this for her.

She dashes into the changing room, and the sound of hangers crashing to the floor tells me that she's beyond excited.

A smile plays at my lips as I absorb some of her infectious delight.

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