Page 6 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

And I hate it.

But what choice do I have? I’m not fit for the outside world. It took barely a year out in the wilds of Las Vegas for it to devastate me completely—mind, body, and soul.

No, I have to be here.The Sanctuary is my home.Josiah is my husband.

I’ve repeated those words to myself more times than I can count since I returned. Maybe one day, I’ll even start to believe them.

“Hello, Zipporah,” I say, giving her a smile.

She’s technically my cousin. Second cousin on my mother’s side. She’s all of fifteen years old, and she’s the only one who looks at me with curiosity instead of judgement.

“I’ve told you before,” I add, “just Elyssa is fine.”

She looks shocked. “No, I have to call you ‘Miss Elyssa.’ It’s only right.”

“I’ll keep trying to convince you otherwise. Where’s Theo?” I ask, missing my son.

“With the nanny,” Zipporah explains. “He’s being passed around. Everyone loves him.”

I smile faintly. The irony is, as much as everyone seems to hate me, they flock to Theo like moths to a flame. He’s been thriving since we got here.

He has his own room, his own nannies, his own routine and playthings. It’s almost enough to make my presence in his life moot. It worries me sometimes. I wake up in the middle of the night again and again from horrifying dreams that he’s slipping away from me, bit by bit.

“Will they be bringing him in soon?”

“I’m not sure,” Zipporah says with a shrug. “Are you ready to try on the dress?”

Resigned, I nod and get to my feet. Deep down in my soul, I’m so sick of this. I’m sick of dress fittings. I’m sick of going to sleep with the weight of fear on my chest and waking up to the sinking feeling that my days are numbered.

But again—what choice do I have?

Zipporah helps me step into the dress and wriggles it up over my hips. She fastens the clasps at my back as I survey my reflection in the full-length mirror.

It’s a shimmering mirage of lace. The minimalist lines are clean and sleek. Every stretch of fabric fits me perfectly.

I hate it with a passion.

But no one has stopped to ask me what I think. I don’t feel like they’ve intentionally excluded me or want me to feel left out. It just hasn’t occurred even once that I might have a voice.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s best if I swallow my thoughts down forever.

“You have such a gorgeous figure,” Zipporah says, admiring my body without apology.

I almost laugh. I can’t bear to eat anything anymore. Food just sits in my stomach like a rock. I’ve lost weight rapidly since coming here.

I turn to look at her. Zipporah’s a pretty girl, though her curly dark hair refuses to be tamed. Her face is covered in freckles and her body still has the bony edges of adolescence.

“So thin…” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “No wonder Father Josiah waited for you.”

“What do you do when you aren’t here, Zipporah?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “You’re still in school, aren’t you?”

Her eyes flash with excitement. “Only for a month longer. Then I can go to The Garden and begin my life’s work there. I’ve been waiting for this for years.”

The Garden.A strange spark of recognition shoots up my body when she says the words, but the familiarity is hidden behind murky, shadowy confusion that I can’t quite uproot.

My memory has been unreliable lately—not that that’s a shocker. And everything it seems to pull up only reveals another unpleasant truth about myself, about my life here.

So much so that I try to avoid digging too deep.

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