Page 42 of Volatile

His fingers dig in even harden to the point that I can feel my teeth creaking under the pressure and I kick out at him. But he slams me against the wall again with more force and my brain rattles as my arms fall to steady myself.

I can shoot perfectly fucking fine, but I never fight hand to hand, and now my body has frozen and become useless.

His disgusting breath touches my cheek as he snarls into my ear, “You may be the Vartanov whore, but opening your legs for them doesn’t mean they’ll believe you. You have always been a whore and that will never change.”

I didn’t even mention Vitali, the dumb fuck, he’s scared of an association rather than judgment over being a predator. His hold on my face tightens and I can’t move as he gets closer, his eyes lining up with mine and I revert back to being a child wishing I was sharing a room with Marta again.

Fight.

Scream.

Yet, I don’t.

I forget everything; all the training with Dima and Vanya has left my memory as he pulls me forward with a threat.

“There’s nothing to break now, Stasya.”

My fight comes back to my tongue only and I spit out, “I’ll cut it off if you even try.”

It’s mumbled as his fingers dig into my cheeks and all the air is knocked out of me as I’m roughly slammed into the wall. My heels scrape against the floor, turning my ankle, and he presses into me. He’s hard and acid burns up my throat to my sinuses. The dark violent whisper touching my cheek adds to my need to throw up.

“You are a filthy whore, like your mother.”

The last part pisses me off more than anything he’s said but my body doesn’t fucking move, and he drops me like I’m nothing. My eyes burn as I force my body to remain still and plastered to wall so I don’t fall, and he looks me up and down before dripping his venom.

“You should be glad your father died before he saw what you became.”

“Don’t you dare speak about my dad,” I grit with a lump building in my throat. My fist quakes with the urge to hit him or to stop the tears, but he laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re the reason Maskim died, do you not enjoy being reminded of him?”

“Fuck you,” is the only thing I’m capable of spitting out as I fight the guilt and tears. He just fucking laughs and turns with his hand on the door handle. “Chuski mudak.”

The sounds of the revelry spill through the door when he opens it and then there’s silence. I don’t need to lick my wounds or fucking cry, I need to forget and cause as much fucking issues for them as possible. The relief of no one having any expectations for me holds hands with never having to worry about who I am. Every fucking cunt in this house formed their opinion before I could even develop a personality.

I check my face in the window to make sure Borya’s dirty hands haven’t left a mark, then blow out a breath containing the parts of myself I like so they don’t spend a second around these assholes and turn. My heels will leave little pock marks against the hardwood with the force of my steps and my ankle burns but my face is a mask as I pull the door open and rejoin the celebrations.

My father’s favorite saying rings in my head.

Glazah bayatsa, a ruki dyelayut.

My eyes don’t betray, they’re bored and fed up despite the discomfort hiding at the base of my spine as I go to bar and drink. It’s not because of a celebration, it’s to dull my senses enough to make my family fucking bearable. Weddings are supposed to be joyous, a time to come together and be happy, but one of their funerals would be better. I’d celebrate having one less person berating me.

An inked hand lands beside me as a warm body fits itself to my back. Vitali even has pretty hands; there’s no dirt under his nails or blood staining them anymore. Keeping my body rigid so I’m not called his whore again, I focus on the mirrored wall of the bar in front of me.

The Bratva is filled with gossips and whoever stands beside a Vartanov is shared between the three brothers in their warped minds. It doesn’t mean shit that two of them are married, incredibly happy and beyond in love with their wives married, the cunts around me will still pump out the rumors. Vitali is an annoying asshole and wraps his fingers around my tumbler to stop me. His lips brush my shoulder, and he speaks low and deadly as he asks, “They run their mouth or touch you?” He hardens behind me when he reaches my neck, and his face pinches with the accusation. “You smell like smoke.”

The prick spoke too loudly, and Marta’s smirk is beside us.I turn and hook two fingers through the gaps between the button of his shirt and pull him with me before she can open her mouth. The world and their dog can guess it’s going end in calling me a slut; I was a slut before I had even been kissed or held hands with anyone, for fuck’s sake. The puppy comes out when we reach the hallway, and he wraps his arms around me, abruptly diverting us to the right as he curses under his breath, “Fuck, the parents are here.”

He’s crazy, lost his hold on reality with all the theories he comes up with because he’s an orphan. The lucky bastard. There’s no one standing behind us as I look over my shoulder, and he pushes us into Borya’s office. My lips curve into a genuine smile when he pushes me against the door and there’s no tie. Straightening the lapels of his suit jacket, I look up and step into his body, away from the shit in my head.

“How often do you see ghosts?”

His brows come together at my question until he remembers his muttering.He knocks everything other than him away when he loops his arms around my lower back and his dopey grin lifts his face.

“I was talking about Vlad and Inessa,” he says with that smile getting closer. He’s always so happy and warm that I want to hide him away from the world, but he ruins it as he says, “My turn, why do you smell like smoke?”

I shrug and bring our faces closer together. “Why don’t I smell like you?”

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