Page 64 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“Any one of them might have taken Theo!”

“They didn’t. He’s here.”

“How can you be so calm?” I demand, taking offense to just how calm he’s being right now.

He glances at me with those molten eyes of his. And I feel my heart constrict painfully.

I never quite know what I’m feeling when he looks at me.

Is it fear?

Nerves?

Desire?

I have no idea.

“Being calm is the only way to get anything done,” he tells me harshly. “If you panic, you make stupid mistakes. You say stupid fucking things.”

I flinch again, knowing that that was a jab at me.

“Where were you raised?” he asks suddenly. “Some sort of redneck Bible camp?”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “Every time someone swears, you act like you’ve been electrocuted.”

I try really hard not to blush, but I don’t quite succeed. “No, it wasn’t a Bible camp,” I say softly.

“You’re not a Mormon, are you?”

“No.”

“In some sort of religious cult?” I shoot him a stare and he shrugs again. “Just curious. It would explain a lot.”

I bristle at the statement. But I’m more hurt than angry. Sometimes, hurt feels like my default setting.

And I know it has to do with the place where I was raised. They raised me for a life within their walls. Not for the raw, razor-sharp battle that defines every minute in the real world.

“You don’t know me,” I manage to choke out, despite my hurt.

“No, you’re right about that,” he says pointedly, reminding me that I don’t know him either.

I don’t know why everything he says affects me so deeply. Maybe because I’ve lived with him in my head for a year. In some ways, I’ve created a fantasy of who he is. A fantasy that is wholly removed from reality.

I stop short when I realize that I hear the gurgling of a baby. “Theo!” I gasp, rushing towards the sound.

I turn a corner and burst into a room on the right. It’s a huge space with arched windows and blinds drawn up high so that you can see the garden. Except that it’s still dark outside, so only soft artificial light from the outdoor bulbs floats in.

I survey the room for the source of the noise and spot an older woman sitting in a chair by the window.

She has my son.

I can smell him from here. That unique, supple baby smell I long for whenever I’m away from him for any length of time.

“Theo!” I cry again, rushing forward.

The woman cranes around slowly, her eyes landing on me sheepishly. She’s older, silver-haired, and on the heavier side. A cane rests across her lap.

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