Page 168 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“Yes?”

“Why did you follow me tonight?”

“It was a mistake,” I say at once. “I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

He nods. “That doesn’t change the fact that you did. I want to know why.”

I bite my lip. “I knew that wherever you were going was dangerous,” I say, stumbling over my words a little. Already, it’s coming out all wrong. “I guess I didn’t want you to be hurt. I thought that maybe if I followed you, I could convince you not to put yourself in danger.”

“That has always been my life.”

“I know but I just couldn’t bear it.”

I don’t say anything else, and he doesn’t ask more of me. We just stand there, staring at each other in the firelight. The moment feels heightened but I’m not sure why. My feelings are complicated enough. I can’t even begin to try to decipher what Phoenix might be feeling.

“Come on,” he says.

“Where are we going?”

“Inside,” he replies. “We’ve got to wash the blood off.”

I look down at my fingers to notice them trembling. He grabs my hand, holding it tight in his.

“Stop,” he orders gently. “Stop re-living it.”

“I can’t.”

“Then remember this: Hitoshi Sakamoto was evil in every sense of the word. He trafficked in girls and women. He stole them and forced them into a life of sexual slavery. He deserved to die.”

I drink in the comfort he’s giving me. I take the absolution and try to absorb it. “But… you needed him alive.”

“Yes,” Phoenix agrees. “I did.”

Those words sit between us for a moment. But our hands are linked and that makes the silence less harsh.

“But if I couldn’t take him alive, I’d rather he be dead.”

The firelight flickers discreetly against Phoenix’s face. The embers are dying out slightly now that they’ve gorged themselves on fine silks. Without the crackling, the night is calm and peaceful.

The atmosphere has shifted considerably. It’s still tentative. Nothing has been decided; nothing has been resolved.

But at least for the moment…

It feels like a truce.

34

Elyssa

He never lets go of my hand. I don’t question it and I don’t try to pull away—mainly because the pressure of his touch feels like the only thing that’s keeping me sane right now.

He leads me upstairs but he doesn’t take me towards my room. Instead, he makes a right. When we walk into a large, dark room, I realize why everything in here looks so spartan in its minimalism.

This ishisroom.

He guides me into the bathroom. A jacuzzi rests in front of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the lush garden. On the opposite side next to the double sinks is a glass-walled shower the size of my room back at the shelter. Gleaming silver showerheads dot the walls with one huge one hanging from the ceiling like a chandelier. Everything is silver-onyx tile that refracts and bends the light into otherworldly shimmers.

I feel like I’m becoming untethered from reality. The luxury, the touch of everything—and the smell.

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