Page 25 of Bound By the Bratva

I move closer to her, sensing that she wants something from me. This is not where I excel. I'm fight and grit and all things darkness. She needs something I don't know how to give. "He’s gone. He won’t come back."

She swallows. "You didn’t hurt him." Her eyes trace up to meet my gaze. There's fear there.

"I didn’t kill him, if that's what you mean." We stand locked in silence for a long moment without moving. Anya's lip trembles, and she leans against the wall, letting her head drop again. "You should go back to bed," I tell her. She's been exhausted and sleeping during the day, walking the halls at night.

"I heard everything."

I raise an eyebrow. "Through the walls?" It's not that I don't believe her, it's just that it seems impossible. Or maybe I really did shout that loud.

"Yes. The shouting. Your voice." Anya looks up at me again and pauses. "Did you hit him?"

"Yes."

She exhales. "He’s a drunk. But he’s still my father, Rolan." I can see the pleading look in her eyes. She will beg me to grant him mercy, which I already knew would happen. And I will give it, so long as he doesn't harm a hair on my son's head.

"And you are the mother of my son. I will protect you." My tone is gravelly and stern, and I reach out and curl a hair around her ear.

She doesn’t reply or move away from my touch. I think for a moment that she appreciates how fiercely I would protect her and Nikolai, but then she frowns and her head dips again.

Her robe rises with the rhythm of her breaths, quiet and shallow, and the hallway light spills across her face, catching the faint shimmer of moisture in her eyes. She doesn’t speak, but in her expression I see every question she hasn’t dared to ask.

I should turn away, should leave her standing there before I let this go further than it already has. But I don’t. For the first time in years, I feel something pressing against the edges of what I’ve buried. It isn’t control. It isn’t power. It’s her. And I can’t walk away.

13

ANYA

When I wake, I find Nikolai on the floor of the sunroom, legs folded underneath him, a red car clutched in both hands. The room is flooded with golden light, the tall windows framing the manicured grounds beyond. The sheer curtains shift slightly from the central heating draft, pulled toward the glass where condensation has begun to gather at the corners. Nikolai's lips move with each engine sound he makes as he pushes the toy across the tile in smooth zigzags.

The floor is warm beneath my bare feet. I stop in the doorway and watch him play for a moment. The sun hits his curls, and for a second, I can almost forget where we are. The illusion is fragile, barely held together by his laughter, but it's sweet to see him happy. At home, I'd have awoken toBatyapassed out on the sofa and morning news streaming in on the television with threadbare towels to bathe my son and meager food to feed him.

The toy is too new and clearly too expensive for someone like me to have given it. The lacquered paint hasn’t even chipped, which means it was purchased recently and probably handled with care. There’s no doubt Rolan spent a year's salary on the toys and furnishings here.

I step in slowly, crouching beside him as I fold my legs to sit on the cool tile. “That yours?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. My voice is light but my stomach is twisting.

Nikolai looks up, beaming. His eyes are wide and proud. “The man gave it to me,” he says, holding the car up so I can see.

I draw in a jagged breath as I think of Nikolai’s interaction with Rolan. I run my hand over his back, anchoring myself with the soft, damp cotton of his shirt. He’s on the warm side and sweating. But he's smiling like the world has always been safe. His cheeks are flushed from play, his clothes are fresh, and his eyes are bright.

I exhale slowly and rest my palm against Nikolai’s back, watching him line up his toy car again. “Do you like it here?” I ask softly.

He nods, not looking up. “Yeah. It’s big and warm and there’s food.”

I smile faintly and shift closer to him, brushing a hand along his shoulder. “What do you think about the man who gave you the toy?” I ask with a gentler tone now. I don't for a single second want my son to know how truly afraid he should be.

He pauses, thinking. “He’s big. But he’s not scary. He said I can ride the horses if I want. Can I,Mamochka?”

I hesitate. “We’ll talk about it.”

He lifts the car again, ramming it into the soldier. “He talks funny. Like you do when you’re mad.”

That makes me laugh a little more genuinely than I'd like to admit, but children are very honest if you're listening to them. “He’s not from the same place I am. His world is different.”

“Is that bad?” Nikolia's eyes meet mine as he pauses and takes in the sight of my face.

I don’t answer him right away. Instead, I sweep a hand through his curls and kiss the top of his head. “Not always. But different doesn’t mean safe.”

He shrugs curiously and returns to driving his car. “Are we staying here forever?”

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