Page 14 of The Brat: Prequel

“Fuck you,” I snarl. “My mom wasn’t a whore, you bastard.”

“Talks like a whore,” he jeers. “Acts like a whore. Like mother, like daughter.”

I manage to slap him, but not as hard as I wanted. When he catches my forearm, I wince in pain and immediately regret not advancing further in Brennan’s self-defense class. Stepanov crushes his thumb into the bones of my wrist, making me yelp.

Is this how a butterfly feels when it’s pinned onto a board and stuck on a wall?

Before I can scream for Coach Grant, Sibirsky presses a sweaty, grubby hand to my mouth while Stepanov shifts his grip on me so that his free hand can go up my skort, smoothing over the shorts and cupping my ass. My reflexes kick in and my knee jerks, but Sibirsky’s there to stop me from attacking Stepanov’s balls.

“If you’re going to be spreading these legs for Maxim Lyanov, then why are you fighting us?” he derides. “You like them rough, huh? From the streets, blyad?”

It’s insane to me that this is happening in phys. ed.

There are people surrounding us, for God’s sake.

I suck in a panicked breath that smells of gross sweat and try to scream but⁠—

Coach blows the whistle again. “Okay, game over now Lesnoy decided to waste all our time over a splinter!”

The pack of dogs disperses, leaving me trembling against the stands and gasping for breath.

Disturbed by how terrifyingly easy it was to corner me in public, I jump when Karine comments, “You’re as white as a sheet.”

Is that satisfaction in her voice? Jesus. When did she start hating me so bad that she’s happy I was assaulted? Was she there all along and didn’t try to help me?! What. The. Fuck?!

Bending over at the waist, I prop myself up on my knees and force myself to calm down.

“I-I’m fine,” I lie, but I know my voice is shaky. Hell, I feel it.

Even after the class is dismissed and we head to the showers, the lukewarm water only makes matters worse.

There’s no point going to the school administration—they’re useless. The Irish hold no sway in these parts either. If I went to Brennan or Eoghan, it’d lead to… well, I don’t know. But turf wars have only recently come to a halt in Manhattan. I don’t want to trigger something else.

The only person who can corral boys like Timofai Stepanov and Janek Sibirsky is Maxim...

I need him. Again.

FIVE

PLEASE, FIX THIS

“Katyonok, you know I’m in Moskva.”

“I’m sorry, Maxim.” I hear the impatience in his tone and immediately freeze. My feelings toward him aren’t paternal, but it’s hard not to connect the dots and hear my father’s stern voice whenever I had an issue. Maybe it’s a Pakhan thing? “I-I didn’t know who else to call.”

Ugh, I sound like I’m crying. He’ll think I’m weak and⁠—

“What’s happened?” he barks, but I hear the concern underlying it. My tongue still feels frozen. Breathing without a hitch in the middle has become today’s impossible task. When I sniffle, he urges, “Tell me, Victoria. Now.”

The fact he answered in Russian seems to thaw out my tongue. “H-He touched me.”

“Who touched you?” he seethes.

“It was only a small touch. Just my boob,” I lie, “but he said I was a whore. He said I was just like Mama.”

I hate that I weep at the final admission, but I’m so confused. Something’s happening—hell, something’s happened in my life and it’s turned my world on its head. How was I assaulted in school and so-called friends and fellow students turned a blind eye? How is this my life now?

“Who touched you? O’Donnelly?”