Page 101 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

I can’t tell if he’s angry or relieved. I can’t tell anything from his impassive face. I have no idea if he even believes me.

“What were you running from?” he asks. “When you came into the room that night. You looked like you’d just woken up from a nightmare.”

And there it is. The one question I absolutely cannot answer.

My jaw tightens. He notices, of course. Those dark eyes notice everything. And when he does, the impassivity gives way to impatience. Annoyance. Suspicion.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why?”

I jerk my chin out. A trait I’ve learned from Charity. I wish I had her courage for real. I wish I could fight for myself the way she fights for me.

“Because it’s not any of your business.”

“You made it my business when you asked me for help.”

“I didn’t ask.”

I know that’s a lie. A pretty blatant one. But I say it anyway. Because I’m a coward.

“Who are you?” he rasps.

The way he asks the question makes me feel immediately defensive. “What do you mean?”

“You heard me,” he says aggressively. “I have a right to know who’s living in my house.”

“I’m not living here,” I shoot back. “I’m just… passing through.”

“And what do you want while you’re ‘just passing through’?”

His question is laced with more questions I can’t answer. Questions like,What do you feel when you look at me? Do you remember what we did the night we met? Do you remember how it felt to be consumed by my kiss, my touch, my body?

I want to turn on my heel and walk away from him. I want to prove that I don’t want or need anything from him.

But that’s not true.

It’s only what I wish was the truth.

Charity’s pleas echo in my ears. I can’t go back on my promise to her. Or my son. I can sacrifice my pride if it means saving them.

“I… I…”

“Spit it out,” he says harshly.

“I didn’t know I was pregnant the night we met. Or, I mean, I didn’t know I was going to get pregnant.”

He doesn’t say a thing. Still as a statue, he watches and waits for me to finish.

“And when I did find out, I had no idea where to find you…”

His expression still doesn’t change.

“He is your son, too,” I continue, stumbling over my words. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are bright red. “And… and it’s been hard this past year… The shelter doesn’t pay much…”

I hate the way it’s coming out. I stop short, dissatisfied with my own case.

“You want money,” he drawls.

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