Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“You’re better than this, Natasha.” Vassili placed down his empty glass a tad too hard.
“I’m not doing anything with Lor—the Italian guy. We’ve been cool for a while. We’re just friends, alright?”
“You were friends with that Adrian Chelomey!” A vein pulsed in his forehead. Momma strolled behind his chair to massage his shoulders.
Turning away, I sent Yuri a message, beginning with Uncle. He was so not my uncle. But the big teddy bear was pretty easy to persuade.
ME: Uncle! Don’t respond to Pop.
He replied instantly.
YURI: What do I get?
ME: All the Krispy Kreme donuts you can eat.
YURI: I can afford to buy more donuts than you Cutie Pie.
Only he could call me Cutie Pie without an argument.
ME: PAHLEZZZ. I’ll explain later.
YURI: Ok. But you never explain. You always say that. You just never do. One day my ‘kəzn is gonna kill me because of you.
ME: He’ll have to go through me first.
I’d strolled halfway out of the room when Vassili took another dig at me. “You let the zhopa take you to the prom. Adrian. Tried. To. Rape. You. Natasha. Don’t you turn your back on me!”
“Vassili, lower your voice.” Momma’s next squeeze of his powerful shoulder did nothing. Not even a flinch at her warning.
Anger and sorrow flashed in his eyes. “We sheltered you too long. All those years with cancer … we did our best. Leave Lachlan! Allow Edik Mikhailov to pursue you. That mud”—he strangled a Russian cussword—“filthy pickpocket wouldn’t dare harm you in his presence.”
“Okay.” Trembling mad, I stuttered, “If-if Edik says something disrespectful, or God forbid he’s a nasty Russian like the Chelomeys—”
The words dropped like stones in the kitchen. My own words. Words that shouldn’t have departed my mouth.
A tense beat of silence passed before my father uttered, “Nasty Russian?”
What was wrong with me? I’d insulted half my bloodline. Heat burned the back of my throat, shame piling onto an untamable rage.
I was half Russian. My blood carried both histories—Momma’s power; Pop’s pride. But that night’s tragedy was executed by the hands of another … Russian. A night that should’ve been joy and champagne and cancer survival had warped me. Left me fragmented. Broken.
And tonight, it bubbled into a hatred targeting the blood in my veins. My lineage.
Eyes averted to the floor, I forced a swallow. Cement crowded my throat. Pop must hate me now.
I’d almost broached that night with my therapist. Almost. Yet the words wouldn’t come, as they tasted of acid. The night of my Whispers of Hope fundraiser went from dazzling to desecrated. I’d survived cancer with family around me. I’d survived attempted rape by Adrian Chelomey.
And I’d survived the horrors of that night alone.
I whispered into the air that had grown fragile with silence, “I’m sorry, Pop.”
“It’s tough for Russians right now, Tasha.” Momma crooned, smoothing a hand over my forearm like she was trying to wipe the poison off me.
Vassili slammed the side of his fist on the marble surface hard enough to make his green shake rattle. “You’re Russian, girl!”
Momma’s eyes found mine, sharp. Not cruel. Just reminding. Holding me accountable the way he just had.
I nodded, tamping down bile. A stranger had ripped away my dignity in the shadows after my birthday. “Shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I … sometimes nightmares just—” My voice cracked. “It’s been a while, but you said Adrian, so … I’m sorry.” Yeah, right, Tash, Adrian isn’t the problem. Some stranger is …
Limbs stiff, I started toward my room before the cement in my throat split me in two.
Adrian Chelomey hadn’t succeeded. Several years ago, Jordyn had been at her last trafficked home, owned by his father. She’d saved me while I was unconscious, as Adrian dragged me from his car to his pool house after prom.
But while Adrian failed, another man succeeded—a Russian.
I’d blown out the candles for my twenty-first birthday. Candles glowing with hope, while dressed like beauty and survival itself.
Who rapes someone when they were tryna stick it to cancer?
After that, therapy didn’t soothe me. Nobody would ever know what some faceless rapist had done.
My only reprieve?
Lachlan MacKenzie. When my world tilted, his arms became the only place I didn’t feel contaminated. That was why I adored him too much.
5
VASSILI
I roughed a hand over my face, uttering every cussword under the sun.
“Feel better?” Zariah asked, settling beside me on the couch.
“No.” I sighed. “I’m becoming my father.”
“Boy, please. You are not turning into Anatoly Resnov.”
“I am.”
“Okay, let’s make a list.”
“Don’t need one.” I shifted in my seat.
“How about his relationship with you and your cousin/half brother, Simeon?”
Proklyatiya! My wife. She was a heavy hitter in the courtroom before we agreed that she’d step down for safety reasons. Now, she spoke of the darkest stain on my family history. “We don’t mention that, Zariah.”
“I know.” She climbed into my lap, fingers soft over my jaw. “You’re worried.”