Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“No one is hurting you again,” Kostya said in a deep, hard voice. There was so much determination in his words that it was like cement filling me, solidifying any hollow, open, and dead place that I had.
And I knew without a doubt that what he said was true.
“Go. Take her away from here. Protect her.” It was Timur who spoke, his words gruff as if it were hard for him to force them out.
He was breathing roughly as he stared at Timur, clearly having an internal war going on inside of him on what he wanted to do.
Which was to kill.
Kostya was clearly trying to control the basic, primal need to let that violent beast out.
Finally he scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled before tucking the gun in the waistband at the small of his back.
I felt the relief instantly and limped toward Timur, my ankle screaming in pain as I held in my tears. I covered my mouth as my gag reflex took hold when I looked at my mother’s corpse. I stepped around the puddle of her blood, needing to untie Timur.
But with the zip ties, there was no way I could do it on my own. A second later, Kostya was there with Vladimir’s knife and cutting Timur free.
Timur stood, walked over to my father, and stared down at his lifeless body. He muttered something inaudible in Russian, but I didn’t need to know the words to understand they’d been vile. His expression said it all.
I took note of how he favored one side of his body with every move he made, and saw the numerous puncture wounds littering his dress shirt, blood making the white fabric now pink.
Honestly I didn’t even know how he was still standing. Kostya immediately had me engulfed in his arms and I sagged against him, suddenly feeling so exhausted.
“There have been things set in motion concerning a new Pakhan.” Timur looked over his shoulder at me. “Believe me when I say Vladimir won’t be missed.”
I didn’t know how to take that but felt Kostya’s arms tighten around me.
Timur looked at him then and said, “I’m sorry for what they did to you as a boy. I’m sorry I had any part of that, even if it was just knowing it was happening and didn’t stop it.”
I’d always thought there was this hatred and animosity between Kostya and Timur. And now I know why. Timur knew about the abuse Kostya was enduring and didn’t say or do anything to stop it.
And because of that, in my eyes, Timur was just as guilty as the men who had physically hurt Kostya.
“Now go. Take the staff hallways and back door. Vladimir let them go home early so there isn’t anyone here but the few soldiers that brought us in.”
Because of the death he’d planned on raining down.
Timur watched me, so many things passing between us that would forever be unsaid.
And I was okay with that. I didn’t have a family any longer.
I only had Kostya.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Anastasia
We’d been off grid for a week but I knew Kostya was still in touch with the Bratva, or more specifically with Timur.
He took phone calls at all hours, his voice too low for me to ever pick up on anything clear, the conversation always in guttural Russian.
He wouldn’t tell me anything, wouldn’t divulge what was happening or what would happen. And although part of me didn’t want to know anything that happened after my father’s death… that I caused… I also didn’t want to be totally in the dark.
It was frightening.
I had killed Vladimir and felt it was in my right to know things that normally I shouldn’t have been privy to.
For the first couple of days after we left, we’d done nothing but drive and mostly in silence.
And I’d been so tired, thankful that Kostya didn’t coddle me or try to make me feel like everything would be okay.
It was as if I hadn’t slept for days on end, my body completely drained of any energy as I slept curled up in the front seat of his SUV, not knowing where we were going but also not caring. Not to mention my ankle was swollen and aching, the sprain making even the simplest task of walking unbearable.
I knew I should care about all my responsibilities, but I was so mentally drained that I just… didn’t. I had my job at the dance company, my apartment and belongings and bills to pay. At least I’d had enough sense to call the studio from a burner phone, explained I had an injury and was getting it looked at. Not a lie but also not the truth. They’d mentioned contacting them the following week, talked about therapy and rehab once I was back, and that my position would be held until we figured things out.