Page 11 of BRATVA'S Avenging Bride
"Then why am I here?"
He stands, moves to the window, his profile sharp against the city lights.
"Because when I watched you walk out of those flames, I saw something I haven't seen in years." He glances back at me. "Choice. You chose to burn it down. You chose to save those girls. You chose to live." He pauses. "I don't remember the last time I chose anything that mattered. Until you."
My pulse kicks up from something dangerous that I can’t name, but I’m certain has taken root somewhere in my bones.
"What do you want from me?" I ask again. Quieter this time.
He turns fully, and the look in his eyes is so intense it steals my breath.
"I want you to choose me."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and impossible.
"I don't even know you."
"Then get to know me." He moves closer, stops just out of reach. "Stay. Learn. See if the monster you think I am is the same one standing in front of you."
"And if he is?"
His smile is slow, dark, devastating.
"Then burn me down,zhar-ptitsa. Just like you burned them."
He leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit there in the too-big room with the too-soft bed, my heart pounding against my ribs. And I realize, with terrifying clarity:I don't want to run anymore. I want to know what happens if I stay. Even if it destroys us both.
Matvey
I don't sleep.
I stand at the window in my study and watch the city bleed from dawn into day, a glass of vodka warming in my hand. Untouched. I don't need the burn of alcohol when my blood is already running hot.
She's three doors down. Probably still awake. Probably still cataloging every exit, every weakness, every way she could hurt me if I get too close.
Smart girl.
My phone buzzes. Emil.
Police closed the scene. Ruling it accidental. Boris's supplier is asking questions.
I type back with one hand:Tell him Boris's debts died with him.
His reply is almost instant.And the girl?
Is no one’s concern.
I silence the phone and drain the vodka in one swallow. It does nothing.
I can still smell the smoke on her skin. Still see the way her hands trembled when she confessed what she'd done, like she expected me to recoil. To call her a monster.
She has no idea what monsters actually look like.
My father wears tailored suits and smiles at charity galas while ordering executions between courses. My brother collects debts with a hammer and calls it tradition. I've put bullets in men's heads and gone home to dinner without washing the gun powder residue from my hands.
We are the monsters.
