Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Nobody hurts my Mila and gets away with it.
CHAPTER 15
MILA
When we return, Mikhail says he and Dimitri must go into the city. There’s something they need to take care of. There’s a moment after he leaves when I’m just waiting for every guard in this place to turn against me, charge into my bedroom, and tell me Dad’s always going to find a way.
Yet nothing happens. I lie in bed, sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, staring at the ceiling. Despite how badly my body needs sleep, I feel too wired to let it happen. I’m overtired, and my body is still pulsing from the steaminess in the cave. The best part was how obsessed and shocked he looked when I swallowed his release.
It wasn’t like I planned it. It felt so right, and the reward was Mikhail’s attention crashing into me like nothing and nobody else existed. Standing, I enter the en suite, shower, and head for the front door.
A guard on the door steps aside and says, “Miss.”
Three guards saw Mikhail and I enter via the secret entrance, but the second the mechanism started, they turned away and pretended to ignore us. I’m familiar with that sort of thing. Bratva men know how to mind their business.
I don’t even have to knock when I reach the other house. Yuri, the butler, opens the door. “Miss Petrov.”
“I was wondering if Lia was awake?”
“Yes, miss. She’s painting in the library.”
“Could you ask if she wants to see me?”
He nods, leaving me to wait. When we returned to the compound, it was like we had never left, like this place had its own atmosphere. I even felt guilty for what we did—letting ourselves forget when my brother needs us.
Yuri returns and then leads me into the library. Lia sits in front of a canvas. She’s sketched the outline of a woman holding a baby. She turns to me in her chair. I can tell she’s had as little sleep as I have. I wonder if that lack of sleep includes Dimitri.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Not bad, actually,” she replies, seeming shocked. “You must be worried sick.”
I didn’t expect her to come right out and say it. Is it that obvious? “I have to get him out of there. Poor Drake …”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that’s an interesting and surprising name for a Russian.”
A memory touches me of Anatoly running into my room with a secret sort of smile. Call me Drake now, okay? D-R-A-K-E. It means dragon, and it’s better than my other name, okay? My old name.
“It’s not his real name. Drake is ten, and already he can see through Dad’s crap.” So many memories touch me, but one hits me hard: the first time Drake saw Dad completely lose it, the love draining in real-time from his small features. “He wants nothing to do with him.”
“How can you get him? Without me … I mean.”
“I don’t know.” I rub my face, suppressing a groan of frustration and regret. “I don’t even know if he would’ve given Drake up if I brought you. He scares me so much. It’s like I can’t think. I don’t even know who I am. He can twist me up so easily.”
“Not anymore,” she says fiercely with a genuine determination. “You’re here now. You’re safe. You’re protected.”
“Maybe I am, yeah.”
“I want to help, but it’s like you said. Your dad might not have given Drake up.
“Maybe …” I pause, annoyed when I realize I’m chewing the inside of my cheek. “Could you ask Dimitri? He might listen to you.”
I hate asking her this, mainly because Mikhail has promised his help, but the Bratva is an old system with a clear hierarchy.
“If they go to war with your dad, even more people will suffer—”
I cut her off. “Is this you speaking or Dimitri?” Talking about Bratva wars seems petty when my brother is out there, terrified, waiting for me. Maybe that’s just the fierce big sister screaming out in me. There’s nothing petty about bloodshed.
“It makes sense.”
“Please,” I say. “Can you try?”
“Okay.”
She pauses, looking at her sketch. I wonder if she means it to be her or somebody else, somebody she knows, or perhaps a future version of her, with Dimitri’s baby in her belly. A silly idea comes to me. One day, we’ll both have Sokolov children.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, looking at me.
“Just … the future, if there is one.”
“I should call Dimitri,” she murmurs, then pauses. “What about the future? I try not to think about it. I’ve always found that’s the best way.”
“Me too,” I reply. “If I ever let myself think about the future, I might let myself hope, leading to more disappointment. Sometimes, Lia, I hate thinking like that. I hate not letting myself think about marriage, kids, a future, and a family.”