Page 16 of Bound By the Bratva

Arman puts on one glove. “Is this what I think it is?” His eyes drop to the baggie then rise to my face as he takes it. I slip my jacket off and start unbuttoning one of my sleeves.

“A lock of hair. From the boy.” I loosen my tie and walk over to a counter where he lays the bag. There's already a blood-drawkit lying on the counter under the light. Arman isn't wasting any time.

“The doc isn't happy about this." He picks up the rubber strip as I fold my sleeve up and bare my bicep.

“Does it look like I give a single fuck? Fuck him. Let's just get this done before someone else beats me to the punch and takes my kid." Anya is lucky I'm not the shoot-first-ask-questions-later type. That boy would be in my home where it's safe if I were.

Arman snaps on the other glove and tears open a sterile needle pack. He wraps the tourniquet around my upper arm, tight enough to make my fingers tingle. I curl my hand into a fist, watching the vein rise.

He finds the spot quickly, swabs it with alcohol, and inserts the needle with precision. Blood flows into the vial freely as he glances up at me. “You want this off the record?”

When it's done, he removes the needle and presses gauze against my arm. I hold it in place while he caps the vial and labels it. Then he turns toward the microscope and sets both the hair sample and blood vial under the light, side by side.

“You know better than to ask me something so stupid." Waiting only a few seconds before tossing the bloody gauze, I roll my shirt back down and button the cuff.

“There won’t be a paper trail, and nothing goes on record. You’ll have results in forty-eight hours.” He begins labeling the samples as I reach for my coat. Having this confirmation is nothing but an insurance policy. When Anya refuses to believe me or listen to what I have to say, I will need it. I don't want to kill her. I'd prefer she do things civilly, but if not, I can enforce my right to her son's life more adequately with the proof that I'm his father.

I glance toward the covered window. “And if someone asks?”

“I never saw you.” Arman doesn't even look up at me. He knows the cost of betrayal.

The air cuts against my face as I step back into the night. I walk the two blocks to my car without rushing, shoes grinding against the salted pavement. My hands are in my coat pockets, but my mind stays behind in that room, where blood and hair sit under sterile light like currency for a war I didn’t ask for.

My driver waits where I left him, engine idling, eyes forward. He doesn’t ask questions when I pull the door open and slide into the back seat. I don’t speak as we ease away from the curb, the city rolling past in blurred shadows. I already know the answer of the tests Arman and his team will perform. But once it’s official, nothing will ever be the same—not for me, not for her, and definitely not for the boy.

9

ANYA

Ilet myself in with the key tucked deep in my coat pocket. The hallway is still and silent, the sky outside barely tinted with gray. Not quite morning yet. I slip off my shoes before the door even shuts behind me, then toe my way across the creaky floorboards.

The bathroom light stings. I shut the door behind me, lean against the counter, and press my palms flat to the cold porcelain sink. For a second I don’t move. I just breathe. Then I slide the check into the medicine cabinet and peel off the clothes from last night like they’re stained. Because they are—not with blood or liquor or even sweat—with him.

In the shower, I scrub my skin raw for the second time in as many weeks. My fingers tremble as I rinse off. The water runs hot but I still feel cold. When I dress, I do it quickly—sweatpants, hoodie, no makeup. I bury the other clothes in the hamper and bury my face in a towel. I think I’m crying but I’m not sure. My throat is too tight to sob and I feel hollow and numb.

The shaking starts in my shoulders and spreads down to my hands. I grip the edge of the counter and breathe, but it doesn’thelp. My body won’t forget what happened. It won’t let me pretend I hated that.

I don't tremble in fear. I tremble from the way my body remembered him. From the heat that won’t leave. From the sick part of me that didn’t want him to stop as my core tightened around him and pleasure rippled through every cell in my body. I should hate him, but even as I sit here thinking, I feel warmth in my belly again.

I force my breathing to slow, then slip out of the bathroom and down the hall. Nikolai’s door is cracked open. He’s asleep, one arm flung over his stuffed tiger, mouth slightly open. I tuck the blanket higher on his chest and stroke his hair once, careful not to rouse him yet. He is my heart, and there is nothing I won’t do for him.

Behind me, I hear the scrape of a chair, and I turn and let myself out of the bedroom.Batyastands in the kitchen in his worn bathrobe, rubbing his face. I smell the stench of alcohol on his breath and know he's been drinking all night again. The fact that he's awake and moving around is a miracle.

"Where were you?" he asks, his voice scratchy and low as he reaches for the chipped mug by the sink.

His face is rough from sleep, but there’s suspicion. His eyes are bloodshot as he puts on a pot of coffee and takes the milk from the fridge.

I don’t even blink as I lie to him easily. "Double shift. They were short," I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I tug my sleeves down past my wrists. It wasn't technically a double, but I did more than enough to earn what I was paid tonight.

My voice doesn’t shake or quaver. I speak with the ease of someone who’s rehearsed the lie so many times it might as well be true. I stare directly at him, holding his gaze withoutblinking, daring him to challenge me. He doesn’t press further, just exhales into his coffee knowing that's all he’s getting.

"You just got home?" he asks, raising one brow as he glances toward the clock above the stove. For a Saturday this isn't so abnormal, especially if I worked a double, but something tells me he knows I didn't just work.

I nod, tugging my hoodie down over my hips. "Fifteen minutes ago," I reply, letting my voice carry the edge of exhaustion I don’t have to fake.

Pyotr pours himself coffee. He doesn’t look at me. "I’ll takeKolyato the park. You should go sleep," he mutters as he turns away, cradling the mug in both hands like it's the only thing anchoring him. I watch him shuffle out and sigh. He loves Nikolai more than I could ever imagine, but he's a foolish man for putting me in this situation. He has no clue how vile and nasty these men are. I just want my family to be whole and at peace.

I'm too tired to argue so I shrug and followBatyato the room where he jostles Nikolai and picks him up. He reaches for me, but I press a kiss to his temple before my father whisks him away, and as I lie down to rest, I hear breakfast being made and Nikolai's happy chants at the announcement of a visit to the park.

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