Page 59 of Forbidden Bratva Virgin

Heaving, and without so much as an acknowledgment, Damir dragged him by the arms and tugged him through another exit door in my office. He had his reservations, and they were clear to me. We never had to let traitors go. Never. The risk of letting them go was higher than when they hadn’t been caught.

But we’d found them and taught them a lesson they weren’t going to forget anytime soon. If they tried shit again, I knew exactly how their lives were going to end.

I shut the door and turned around to find her watching me. “Damir’s taking him to a hospital. If he still fucking dies, know that’s on him. Now, let’s go somewhere else where we can talk. You said you wanted to me, and if you had to come all the way here, then I assume it’s important.”

Her chest heaved with relief, and she pushed herself off the wall.

I moved toward the left, hoping she was following, but in a blink, I noticed she was walking the other way—away from me.

Fuck.

“Hazel, where are you going?”

No answer.

“He’s taking them to a fucking hospital. What else do you want?” I called out again.

She didn’t answer, and I was forced to watch her small back and curvy hips disappear through a dark corridor. A muscle in my jaw twitched. Right now, for the first time in years, I felt something close to fear.

Not for myself, but for her. For the possibility of losing her.

Chapter 22 – Hazel

Exercises, calorie deficits, starvation, and maybe diarrhea.

Those were more logical explanations for losing two pounds of weight in one night. Not nightmares. The number of times I’d woken up from sleep, screaming and clutching the sheets because of lifeless, bloodied eyes drowning in deep blue seas was unhealthy. The aroma of breakfast hadn’t been appealing, and the thoughts of doughnuts reminded me of Nathan.

I climbed off the scale and put my shoes back on, smiling at the attendant who’d assisted with holding my bag and water bottle. “Thanks, Natalie.”

“Anytime, Miss Sinclair.”

I was sleep-deprived, hungry, and already excited for the day to end, though it had barely begun, but if there was one thing I was not, it was a coward.

I pushed open the door to my office, already knowing who was sitting on the couch waiting for me. “Good morning, Mr. Yezhov.”

“Hazel.” He nodded curtly.

He sat across from me, his posture as effortless as always, legs crossed at the knee, hands resting lightly on the armrests. He looked composed, as if this was just another meeting. But I knew better now.

This would be our last session.

With the same vigor I had used to ask Amelia for a challenge, I was going to use the same to recommend that Miron Yezhov be taken to an asylum.

Seeing his face reminded me of the men in his office and the blood he had on his hands. Literally. Whatever madness plagued him was bigger than just anger management problems. He’d had a knife pressed to a man’s throat. The main reason he was here was because he’d hit an old man across the head with a bottle.

The signs had always been there, hadn’t they? But I’d been blinded by his charm and everything else to even recognize that the help he needed was anything but therapy.

For all I knew, he could be a serial killer or an assassin. Whatever it was, I couldn’t understand him. And to help someone, I had to understand what I was dealing with.

“I think we should end here,” I said, keeping my voice measured. It wasn’t easy. My chest was tight, my breath shallow, but I had to remain steady. He would notice any wavering, and I refused to give him that satisfaction.

“End what here?”

“Our sessions. I can’t keep up with them.”

Miron tilted his head, an almost imperceptible movement, but I caught it. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” I folded my hands in my lap, pressing them together to keep them from shaking. “I’ve done all I can. And I’ve realized I’m not helping you.”

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