Page 41 of Bound By the Bratva

"This one told," he says. "He gets his neck cut." He lifts the toy as if he’s proud of the lesson and doesn’t realize she’s there.

Her expression doesn’t change. Her lips press together and her shoulders lock before she steps forward, picks him up, and holds him close. Nikolai doesn’t resist. He curls into her with an easy smile and a warm peck on the cheek.

"Mama,Batyawas playing with people with me. We were having fun." He peppers her cheek with more kisses as she glares at me.

"So good, Koyla, but it's time for a bath." Her hatred for me throws daggers through her gaze as I stare after them. Their retreat is hasty, and I can only think of my ownmamochkaandwhat she might've thought of me as a child playing such angry, violent games with my toy soldiers. Is that why I am the man I am today?

I watch them go. The boy’s hand hooks around her collar. She carries him like she’s done it every day of his life. And over her shoulder, he peers at me, wiggling his fingers in a goodbye wave that makes me second-guess every fucking choice I've made for the past eight weeks.

I don’t stop her. I don’t offer comfort. There’s nothing useful left to say.

And I don’t follow because what’s done can’t be unlearned.

21

ANYA

The air smells better outside even in the frosty air of late December when we should be decorating for Christmas, which Rolan doesn’t seem to remember is a thing. Even the dirt has a cleaner scent, which sounds silly, but it's easier to imagine this place's soil not stained with the blood of Rolan's enemies.

The stables sit past the far hedgerow, past where the guards casually drift just within earshot. I’ve only seen them from the windows of the track when I worked late shifts until now. Ten days of walking the grounds, of letting my steps trace the same hopeless path, eight weeks of being trapped on the Vetrov estate without seeing my father, and this is the first time I’ve come here.

Rolan didn’t ask me to join him. He told me we were leaving and made me get dressed. Said Nikolai needed to grow up the way he did—around horses, around discipline. I didn’t argue because arguing now means less than nothing. My voice doesn’t carry weight at all, anyway. Besides, Nikolai loves the horses and he's been cooped up just as long as I have.

Rolan walks ahead with Nikolai perched high on his shoulders. They speak in half-laughs, the kind that make me feel distant like I've been left behind or forgotten, which I know is far from the case. I sleep in Nikolai's bed every night, protecting him the way a mother should. It should make me soft to see them like this, but it doesn't. As much as I understand Nikolai needs a father, I'm still completely opposed to the idea that Rolan even knows what that means.

Inside the barn, the scents of hay and sweat welcome us. The staff nod as we pass. One of the older trainers, a man with wide shoulders and faded tattoos on his neck, leans against the stall rail and lifts his chin at us.

"Vetrov," he says to Rolan. Then he glances at me. "You look like your mother." His voice carries the familiarity of someone who remembers things I don’t.

I pause, unsure whether to feel comfortable around this man, uncertain if his memory is something I want to be real. But when he glances back to Rolan, the recognition lands there instead. I freeze for a second, realizing it’s not me he’s recognizing. It’s my son, on the shoulders of the man who used to ride here as a boy. His face holds the kind of half-smirk adults give when the past comes full-circle.

The comment wasn’t for me—it was for Nikolai. Because this man is no fool and like everyone I ever tried to hide Nikolai's truth from, he sees it in plain sight.

Rolan keeps walking, distracted by Nikolai pointing at one of the darker colts. I stay behind and meet the older man’s eyes with a sudden determination.

"That one’s yours?" I ask, nodding toward the colt Nikolai’s admiring. The question is more than casual, and the man seems to pick up on that.

"Vetrov’s." He jerks his chin toward the horse. "That’s the stallion. Fast as hell. Mean too. Won’t take the bit from just anyone."

I lean against the wooden stall door, absorbing that. "You run him much?"

"Not now. The ground’s starting to freeze, making it unsafe and unforgiving for proper racing. It’s not the season for pushing these animals too hard. But the family’s putting on a small event this week—something private, just for themselves. It’s meant to keep spirits high and the competition sharp, even if there’s nothing official about it." He shrugs, like it’s all routine, but my interest is piqued a little. I lean in, watching Rolan vanish out the stable door, probably headed to another stable to see more horses.

"What kind of event?" Toeing a bit of straw on the hard earth next to my foot, I try to act casual. I'm not usually one to talk to men I don't know, but anything I can learn about this family to gain leverage against Rolan and get my son back is a good thing. This man is willing to talk, so I'll listen.

"Two-horse race," he says. "Champion stallion against a new filly we’ve been training. She's young, but sharp. Smart as hell, that one. If she doesn’t spook, she might surprise us."

I glance toward the direction Rolan went, but my mind stays locked on the wordrace. A private, internal competition. No stakes on paper. Nothing formal. A plan starts to formulate in my mind. The filly is a potential favorite to win, and there are things I'd deeply love to win in a wager—like my freedom.

"They do that often?" I ask, again, keeping my tone ultra-casual. To this man, I'm nothing more than Rolan's wife—or object if he knows the ins and outs of the Vetrov estate.

"Now and then. Just for fun. But with that filly? Might be worth watching." He clicks his tongue and winks at me. "Mightrace like you do… Imagining you're as fire in the sack as I've heard."

The comment is degrading but I fake a blush for his sake. I’m already putting the pieces together—a bet Rolan can’t ignore and a way out he might just accept.

And for once, the odds might be mine to rig.

I stand and listen to the old pervert a few more moments before I raise my hand to my ear and pretend I hear Rolan. "Did you hear that? I think he's calling me. It was good to catch up… Thank you." I rush away before he can waylay me with more stories of the old track, and as I search the stables, the plan in my head solidifies.

---