Page 118 of The Bratva Sinner

“I was ten or eleven. She changed my birthday a lot. I honestly don’t know when my real birthday is.” That was a thought that just occurred. I might not be nineteen. What if I’m older? I feel older.

He gently rubs his thumb against my belly.

“We were in Louisiana. Some apartment near Shreveport. I don’t remember why we were there.” I stare at the window with the faint glow of the security lights bleeding through the blinds. “I woke up, and she was standing over my bed, already dressed. She had our bags packed. She said we were leaving, and that I needed to put my shoes on.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. She never did; that was just how it worked. We moved, and I was supposed to trust her and not ask questions.” I pause. “I asked questions anyway. She told me to shut up and get in the car.”

He presses his lips to the top of my head. I hear him exhale softly.

“She drove the whole night. I was in the back seat with a pillow and a blanket, and she had the radio on low so I could sleep. Country music. She always had it on country.” I can hear it if I try. Tinny and soft from the old speakers. “I pretended to sleep for a while, but I kept watching her in the rearview mirror. Shewas scared. I knew it even then. She kept checking the mirrors. When we passed a car, she always turned her face away from the window.”

“But she didn’t stop.”

“She never stopped. We pulled off for gas somewhere in the middle of nowhere just before sunrise, and she bought me an orange juice and a pack of those little powdered donuts.” I feel the memory so clearly that it hurts. “She sat on the hood of the car with me while I ate them. I got powder all over my pants. She drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup. I remember her telling me it was nasty. I asked why she drank it. She said, “Nobody will ever touch you. You hear me? Not ever. I’ll drive until the wheels fall off before I let anyone put their hands on you.’”

I inhale a shaky breath. “Snippets of those years have been creeping in. A smell. A sound. They trigger memories that didn’t mean shit before, but now, I see it all so clearly.”

“Your brain was protecting you,” he says.

“When I got older and realized she was drinking too much, I wondered why. She was always so sad. Or angry.”

I’m crying again. Silently this time. Just a stray tear.

“She taught me to shoot when I was twelve,” I say. “We were in Arkansas. She took me out to this field behind wherever we were staying. She put a tin can on a fence post and handed me a .22. She showed me how to hold it.” I smile. “She was a terrible shot. I figured that out pretty quickly. But she stood there with her hand over mine, and she made me do it over and over, until I could hit the can three times in a row.” I swallow. “She said, ‘If someone ever comes for you and I’m not there, you make themregret it. You don’t hesitate. You don’t wait to see what they want. You just make them regret it.’”

“She was preparing you,” Maksim says quietly.

The ache in my chest is so powerful that it feels like it will never heal. “I used to think she was paranoid. Damaged. I thought the alcohol and drugs were making her act so crazy. By the time I was eighteen, she’d really lost it. I couldn’t talk to her at all. She was drunk most of the time. High. She was barely alive, and I wanted to leave. She told me to leave her, but I couldn’t. I kept telling myself I was saving up, but to go where? I never understood why Mom told me I had a different name, but I think part of me knew.”

“You were a child,” he says. “Don’t blame yourself.”

I shift and roll to my back. He stares down at me in the darkness.

“I wish?—”

I stop. Wishes don’t change the past.

I don’t want to think about all the hurt. I want to be with my husband. He makes me forget. He chases away the darkness and makes me feel alive.

“Lila?”

“I wish you would kiss me,” I murmur.

He searches my face, using his thumb to brush the last tear from my cheek, and then he leans down and presses his mouth to mine. Soft. Careful. Loving.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. “You sure, princess?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He kisses me again, sliding his hand into my hair. There’s no urgency in his touch. No rush. Just his mouth moving against mine, his tongue lazily sweeping inside.

He moves his lips to my jaw. My temple. The corner of my eye. He kisses the tears with a tenderness that nearly has me crying again. But not sad tears. Happy tears.

“Maksim.”

“I’m right here, voinitsa,” he murmurs against my cheek.