Page 4 of Bound By the Bratva

“Don't take forever. I want to know what she's doing and I want to know why." I disconnect and black the phone, slide it into my pocket. If anyone can sniff out details, it's Arman.

The highway curves south. Snow hasn’t stuck yet, but the air outside is heavy enough to promise it soon. I didn’t think much of her before—just another girl doing what she had to do. But watching her again turns something over in my mind that’s hard to ignore. She’s a question that was never answered. Not about what she wanted, but about why I gave a damn at all. She got under my skin, and I told myself it didn’t mean anything. Now she’s back, and I'm thinking about what it would take to make her stay.

The car is silent, but I hear her voice in the back of my mind, telling me I'm a vile creature whom she hates, but the pleasure I drew from her lips said otherwise.

Most women don’t leave me thinking. Anya fucking Morozova did.

And now that she’s back, I finally have the chance to find out why.

3

ANYA

The apartment door creaks when I push it open. I slide the chain into place and turn the deadbolt hard. It won’t stop someone determined to get in, but the habit is carved into me now, and after last night, I can’t risk leaving anything open.

The smell hits me as soon as I cross the threshold. It’s a mix of old cigarettes, cheap vodka, and the sour mildew that settles into old cushions no matter how many times you scrub them. The couch sags under my father’s weight. He’s passed out, slouched halfway off the cushions. His shirt has ridden up over his belly. One sock hangs loose, the heel twisted around. A bottle lies on its side at his feet, not empty but far from full.

My gaze shifts to the other end where Nikolai is curled up. He’s bundled under the blanket from our bed, the thin one I usually keep folded in the linen drawer, but I gave it to him last night. His knees are pulled tight to his chest. His arms are wrapped around the stuffed bear missing one eye. He’s small enough that he doesn’t touch my father, and I frown at the bedraggled sight.

One very broken man and one boy who deserved more than this.

I stand there a little longer, my fingers still wrapped around my arms in a tight hug, before I make myself move. I head to the bathroom, stepping carefully to avoid the loose floorboard near the hallway. I want to wash the feeling of shame from my body, though the water never truly does that. I carry it like a cloak, the fact that I spread my legs for that man to protect my father, and now look at me.

The water heater takes ten minutes to heat properly, and the shower barely manages to be lukewarm. I undress while I wait, then once in the water, I scrub quickly and with force, dragging the cloth over every inch of my skin until it stings from the friction. I don't feel clean, but I don't feel the ghost sensations of Rolan's callused hands on my body anymore, at least.

I towel off, braid my hair back, and avoid the mirror above the sink. I already know what I’ll see there. I don’t need the confirmation of my shame or the fatigue under my eyes to remind me what a mess I'm in right now.

In the kitchen, I stir the last of the instant coffee into a chipped mug of tepid tap water. I drink it black because there’s no milk left. Then I tear the crusts off three slices of stale bread and eat them with a smear of tomato paste. The fridge hums unevenly, its door swollen from a broken seal. I keep one eye on the hall clock. I’ll need to wake Nikolai if we’re going to make it before the first bell for school.

When I kneel beside him, he stirs with a soft grunt. His eyes open slowly, still sticky with sleep, then sharpen as he sees me. He sits up and yawns. He rubs his face with the back of one hand.

“Is Deda sleeping?” he whispers.

I nod and lower my voice. “Let’s be quiet so we don't wake him, okay?” Tousling his hair, I smile at him, though inside,anger forms a pit in my stomach.Batya'spromises mean nothing anymore, just like six years ago when he promised he could handle that debt, until they had a gun to his head and I was trembling, offering myself to a beast of a man in exchange for his safety.

Nikolai gives a small nod of his own, then slides off the couch. I walk him to the bathroom, hand him his toothbrush, and press my palm lightly to his back as he brushes. I pull his uniform from the hanger in the hallway and he heads to our room to change.

Once he’s dressed, I zip up his backpack and hand him the sandwich container from the fridge that I prepared before going to work, knowing my father, who hasn't moved since I came in, would forget Nikolai's lunch and he'd go hungry. All of this that I'm doing, and he can't even care for my son properly.

Outside, the air is cold enough that our breath fogs. I wrap Nikolai’s scarf tighter around his neck, then we walk toward the bakery on the corner before school. He chatters the whole way—about a dream he had where he was flying, about a classmate who lost a tooth, and about how he hopes they get to play outside today. I nod, hum, and smile where I can, but I don’t say much. My chest still feels like it's braced for impact.

At the bakery, I buy him a warm pirozhki filled with cabbage and potato and hand it to him wrapped in a napkin. He grins up at me and says, "Thank you,Mamochka," and licks a smear of filling off his thumb.

We reach the school steps by the fence and he turns toward me saying, “Will you pick me up today?”

I nod and give him a smile I don’t feel. “Don't I always?”

"But sometimes Deda does, and you're sleeping." His nose scrunches up as he hands me what's left of his pastry. "And Deda smells funny too. But you smell nice, like flowers."

"I'll be here, Niko. Now go on, you'll be late." I wave my hand at him and he hurries off.

That’s enough for him. He climbs the stairs without looking back. I wait until the doors close behind him before I let my posture sink. Then I walk.

I take the long way to give myself more time to think. I cut around the park, avoiding the main road, and follow a side street where I pass the pharmacy tucked beside a vape kiosk and a pawn shop. The street looks empty, but my nerves don’t settle. My feet move, but my thoughts keep turning back to the lounge. Back to him.

Was he watching me? Did he recognize me and choose to say nothing? Or is this all in my head?

I change direction without thinking. I take a longer, unfamiliar route with fewer windows and fewer eyes. Every noise behind me tingles my spine. Every footstep that doesn’t belong to me becomes another possibility I don’t want to face.

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