Page 67 of Bratva's Vow
And for a second—a shameful, pathetic second—I wanted to burrow closer and stay there. Let him shield me from the storm he’d created.
But the second passed.
Because the storm wasn’t outside. It was him.
And I’d had sex with him.
Twice, in fact.
Once, desperate in the shower. The second time slower, almost tender. The heat ebbed, but the need didn’t. Both times, I let him inside me. Both times, I kissed him back and whispered things I shouldn’t have. Both times, I let myself pretend.
Pretend that love and murder could coexist.
Pretend that monsters could hold me this softly.
Shame bled through my veins like poison. My stomach twisted painfully as my mind caught up with my body’s betrayal.
You slept with the man who’s responsible for your father’s death.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my throat tight with nausea. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t wake up next to him like everything was fine. If I stayed, I would give in to him and accept everything he’d done.
I had to get out.
Every shift of my hips felt deafening in the dark. My heart thundered in my ears as I eased his arm from my waist and slipped out from under the sheets.
Maxim murmured something in his sleep and rolled slightly toward my empty space. I froze, breath lodged in my throat. Waiting. Counting each beat of silence.
But he didn’t wake.
I stood beside the bed, naked and shaking, watching him sleep in the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful for someone who had ripped my world apart.
I tore my gaze away and forced myself to move.
Step one: clothes. We’d fallen asleep naked after the second time we had sex. His cum was still on my thighs and the crease of my ass, but there was no time to take a shower. Every second mattered.
If he woke up and found me trying to flee…
Every step felt like I was trespassing in my own life. My hands trembled as I pulled on the jeans, wincing when the zipper caught slightly in my skin. My shirt followed. I grabbed my sneakers, sat on the floor, and shoved my feet into them without untying the laces.
My phone. My wallet.
I snagged them both from the nightstand, gaze darting toward the bed again when Maxim shifted and let out a low exhale. For half a second, he looked like the man I loved. Just Maxim. Not the Pakhan. Not the murderer.
That only made it worse.
I tiptoed toward the door, my steps silent. My breath felt trapped in my lungs, released only in small, controlled exhales through my nose. I couldn’t shake the paranoia that he’d wake.
When I cracked the door open and slipped through, the hallway was dark. Only the faint glow of security lights illuminated my path as I padded down the stairs. At the front door, I hesitated. For a long second, I stood there, biting my lip raw, gripping the doorknob tight.
Could I really do this?
I could almost feel his anger when he woke and found me gone. I could almost hear the fury rumbling low in his throat, see his face darken, imagine his hand clenching into a fist.
Walking away from a murderer shouldn’t be this complicated.
The night air hit me like a slap. Cold and damp. I hadn’t grabbed a jacket, but it didn’t matter. The chill reminded me I was still alive, still in control of something. My freedom.
I hurried down the driveway, sticking close to the shadows. The farther I got from the house, the tighter my chest squeezed. Not because of fear but because of guilt. A stupid, misplaced guilt that whispered I shouldn’t be doing this.
