Page 125 of The Bratva Sinner

“There were four of us kids in that house. The couple who ran it were in it for the money, which is more common than it should be. They weren’t cruel. They just didn’t give a damn whether we were alive or dead as long as we weren’t making noise that would attract attention. That is a good house. I’d been in too many where the husbands gave too much attention.”

My stomach clenches. I don’t have to guess what she means.

I keep folding. I keep my eyes on my hands because I think it’s easier for her to talk if I’m not watching her face.

“There was a fire,” she says. “I was fourteen.”

Her voice is flat.

“I didn’t set it,” she says. “But I didn’t stop it, either.”

I put down the shirt I’m holding.

“I smelled it,” she says. “I woke up, and I could smell it, and I knew what it was, and I just lay there for a while. I thought about not getting up. I thought if I just went back to sleep, it would be easier. I was fourteen and so tired that I stopped caring whether the next day came.”

I reach for another bit of clothing from a box. My heart is pounding. I know what she’s talking about. It’s like she’s been in my head. Lived my memories.

“I got up,” she says. “I got the two younger kids out. The other one got herself out.” She places a stack of clothes in one of the boxes. “The couple lost the house. No one was seriously hurt. I went to another placement, and then another. I was sixteen, and my next foster dad decided that I was his play toy.”

I press my lips together and blink back tears.

“I ran away. I figured if men were going to use my body, I was going to get paid for it.”

I reach into the box and cringe when I pull out a thong.

“I had a pimp,” she says. “I won’t go into detail about what that looked like. You can probably fill in the blanks.”

I don’t want to, but I can.

“Maksim found me.” She stops folding. “Or I found him. It’s hard to say which. I was in bad shape. He didn’t make a big thingabout it. He made sure I was okay. Got me somewhere safe. Dealt with the situation I was in.”

“The pimp.”

“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. “He never once made me feel like I owed him for it. I kept waiting for him to tell me what it would cost. That’s how it works. That’s always how it works.” She looks up at me. “It never came.”

I look at her face and see it now. All the things I misread as hostility. The way she keeps her expressions controlled. The way she walks into a room and quickly identifies threats.

I recognize all of it because I do the same things.

“He just kept checking in,” she says. “Making sure I was eating. Making sure I was safe. He asked me if I wanted to keep working, or if I wanted to do something else. He didn’t shame me or scold me. He gave me a choice.” She sighs. “He’s been my family for eleven years. He’s the only family I’ve chosen to keep.”

I look at the boxes of clothes.

“I’ve been hard on you,” Cinder says.

It’s not quite an apology. I don’t think apologies come naturally to her.

“I’ve been hard right back,” I say.

“You have.”

She flashes a smile. I think she approves of my surliness.

“I understand it now,” I say. “Why you’re protective of him.”

She’s quiet.

“He loves you,” she says. “I’ve known him for a long time, and I have never seen him look at another person the way he looks at you. So, I’m adjusting.”