Page 45 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

“You can’t?” he snarls. “Or you don’t want to?”

I blink away the burgeoning tears and try to remember that I need to maintain strength in his presence. “Maybe both,” I reply honestly.

“Tough. I’m not in the mood for games.”

“That’s the problem,” I sob. “You see this as a game. But it’s not to me. This is my life. It’s my son’s life. Why would I risk everything by lying to you?”

“It wouldn’t be the first stupid decision you’ve made.”

He has me there.

Stop it. You’re letting your astounding lack of self-worth win. Fight back like I know you can. You’re more than a doormat, Lys.

“You’re right about that. I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions. One of which was trusting you.”

Phoenix’s eyes narrow resolutely. “Ironic.”

“I hid things because I was trying to keep my son safe,” I snap. “In my position, what would you have done?”

He doesn’t answer. I take it as a win.

“Exactly! Because you’ve never been in my position. No, you’ve always had wealth and power and status. But not all of us are the children of powerful people. Not all our parents have armies ready to be deployed the moment we’re in trouble. Hell, some of us wouldn’t even get help even if that were true.”

Phoenix’s hand clenches the steak knife resting on the table. “You think my life has been easy?” he hisses, his tone dangerously low. “You think that just because I have money, that I don’t have problems? That I don’t have pain?”

I think about his dead wife. His dead son.

My heart aches for him. Truly, it does. But he’s denying me the ability to give him the comfort I so desperately want to offer him.

“I understand that you—”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” he interrupts.

“And that’s my fault?” I ask. “You’re the one who keeps pushing me away.”

“I don’t need a fucking shrink.”

“Then how about a friend?” I ask. “Or are you too proud for that?”

“I have a friend.”

“Matvei works for you.”

“Immaterial.”

“Is it?” I ask. “Because I’m not sure I’d like playing second fiddle to my friend all the time. I’m not sure I’d like taking orders from a friend.”

He tenses slightly. It’s barely noticeable, but I’m paying attention now. I’ve stumbled across a truth I was never meant to know. Some fissure between the two men.

“We’re not talking about me.”

“We never really are, are we?”

“Stop.” He waves a dismissive hand. “You’re deflecting.”

“We’re always talking about me,” I press. “But a conversation is a two-way street. A relationship is a two-way street. You have to give to get.”

“Not in my world.”

---