Page 187 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

Charity stills for a moment and looks at me with a searching gaze. “I’ve never asked you….”

“I know,” I say. “And I always appreciated that because—well, I guess I never wanted to face the truth of what I did that night.”

Charity frowns. “Lys, hon, you’re talking as though you’re the criminal. But you aren’t. You were the victim.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You just assumed I was and I… I let you believe that.”

She glances at Theo, who’s rolled over again, then back to me. “I don’t understand.”

“I told you that I was married off to the… the man in charge,” I say. “Josiah.”

She looks a little startled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just, you’ve never mentioned his name before.”

I look down. “That was his name.” I don’t add that it tastes foul and bitter on my tongue. “He was the center of our entire community. When it was announced that we were engaged—well, it was considered the ultimate honor.”

“Honor?”

“That he chose me.”

“Choseyou?” Charity balks. “You mean, he picked you. Like you were an object on a shelf?”

I hate the way she says it. But I can’t refute a single word.

“Yes,” I tell her. “And I agreed. In fact, I was flattered.” I avoid Charity’s face, scared of what I may see there, and charge ahead with my story. “You assumed that he was abusive. That he tried to rape me.”

“What about it, Lys? We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to re-live your—”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” I interrupt.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t remember much from the night it all happened,” I stammer as tears of helplessness surface in my eyes. “The only thing I remember is waking up with a horrible headache. And… something heavy in my hand.”

I glance over at the paperweight.

“That, to be exact.”

Charity is blinking fast as she processes what I’m saying. “You were holding the paperweight? What does that have to do with anything?”

“It was all bloody, Char. And when I forced myself back to my feet, I discovered Father Josiah on the floor—with a crater on the side of his head…”

A stunned silence ensues.

Charity’s jaw drops. “Fuck me,” she breathes.

“I… I didn’t run from him, Charity,” I confess. “Not exactly. I killed him. At least, I think I did. And then I ran because I was scared of what they would do to me if I stayed.”

I close my eyes and brace myself for what comes next. For her to call me a killer. A liar. A criminal.

For her to say she’s turning me into the cops or to the commune or to anyone who might want to make me atone for my sins.

I expect this to be the end.

Instead, she reaches out and grabs my hand.

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