Page 93 of The Wrong Brother

Hearing my name from her feels surreal.

“Hi,” I manage carefully.

For a second, neither of us speak. The noise of the shopping district seems strangely distant while we stand there studying one another, half-tucked into an alley to get out of foot traffic. She’s prettier than I expected up close, but there’s something brittle underneath it. Something strained.

Then her gaze flicks briefly over me, and I know that she’s looking for bruises on me, too. As if Rus?—

He would never.

“Your scarf,” I murmur, moving my hand toward my collarbone. Her eyes widen as she clutches the light scarf, readjusting it.

Victoria notices my expression and looks away, embarrassment flashing across her face. “I didn’t realize anyone would see. I thought I’d covered it.”

The quiet shame in her voice makes my heart twist.

“It’s not your fault,” I say automatically.

A humorless little laugh escapes her. “That sounds practiced.”

Because it is. Because women say these things to each other all the time when men hurt us.

Victoria hesitates before speaking again. “Can I ask you something?”

Every instinct tells me this conversation is dangerous. We’re standing in the middle of a public shopping district discussing one of Colorado’s rising political stars like he’s a monster lurking behind closed doors.

Which he is.

Still, I nod slowly.

She lowers her voice. “What was he like with you?”

The question sits heavily between us. Not because I don’t know how to answer, but because I suddenly realize she’s asking out of hope more than curiosity. Hope that maybe she imagined it. Hope that maybe she somehow caused it and can stop it from happening again.

I know that feeling, too.

I glance around once more before answering carefully. “At first? Charming. Really intense, but charming.”

Victoria swallows. Across the street, the two women who were with her are watching us closely. Any minute now, someone will notice us and snap a picture.

“And later?”

I hesitate. Because despite everything, some stubborn part of me still feels guilty speaking openly about Andrei. Maybe because I once loved him, or thought I did. Maybe because admitting the truth means admitting what I tolerated for too long and just managed to escape.

Finally, quietly, I say, “Later, I spent a lot of time convincing myself his anger meant he cared. And that the…bruises…were just passion.”

Victoria’s face pales slightly. For several long seconds, neither of us speaks. Then she exhales shakily and folds her arms around herself despite the warmth lingering in the afternoon air.

“He gets so angry sometimes,” she whispers.

I nod and keep my mouth shut. Because if I open it, I’m afraid I’ll step forward, grab her wrist, and tell her toleave.Warn her that with men like Andrei, it’ll only get worse. I know that now. I was blinded to it then.

When Nadya signals to me that we need to get moving, I half-turn away. Then it’s Victoria’s hand onmyforearm, her slim fingers freezing me in place.

“Is his brother? Are they very similar?”

I know what she’s asking. And I know that she was looking for bruises on me only minutes ago.

“No,” I answer honestly, surprised by the surge of defensiveness and pride I feel at the mention of Rus. “No, he’s…protective, but in the way that…I think he would behead anyone who tried to touch me the wrong way.”