The God (Bratva Blood #3)- S.R. Jones Page 0,41

ask in a whisper, afraid of his answer.

“I see a lost girl,” he says, his eyes sad.

I nod and bite my lip because what can I say? I am a lost girl. Totally lost. Utterly lost.

“I’m lost too,” he says.

I meet his gaze again, and my heart clenches.

A memory hits me then, and I smile. “We always were,” I say.

“Yeah, we were.”

We used to play Peter Pan sometimes in the woods when we were young. We said we were a lost boy and a lost girl, and one day we’d fly away to Neverland. I’ve not thought of that for such a long time.

“We can’t do that again,” I say. “I mean, what we did in the changing room.”

“We can,” he replies.

“No. It’s wrong. I’m married.”

“You’re married to an abusive asshole who treats you like shit.”

I suck in a breath. “How much exactly do you observe?”

He looks away from me and shrugs. “It’s pretty obvious in the way he treats you every day. You’re his possession. His cash cow.”

I flinch. “Ouch, don’t sugarcoat it, will you?”

“It’s true. I’m trying to figure out why you stay.”

I sigh and shake my head. “You don’t know me, Bohdan. Don’t think you do from a week in my life. You don’t get to judge me either.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m not judging you. If you want to leave, I can help.” Then he leans in close, brushes a hair from my forehead, and tucks it behind me ear, as he whispers super quiet. “If you want him gone, I can do that too.”

Then he turns and goes to stand against the wall, letting me browse.

Who has my beautiful boy who scattered me in pixie dust become?

Chapter Fifteen

Bohdan

Aged Eighteen.

I finish putting the last of the money into the wall and then screw the wooden boards into place. I drag the heavy chest we use to cover this bit of the wall in front of it and sit down, out of breath.

My heart is racing and not from the physical exertion. This is as dangerous as fuck. My uncle is playing with both our lives doing this. No one skims off the top from the Bratva and gets away with it. I should tell him to stuff it each time he gives me a bag of money to come hide in the wall in this ramshackle garage, but I don’t. He’s the only person who ever stood by me. Everyone else betrayed me, had no interest in me, or left.

My uncle killed my father, for me. I can’t say no to him. I sigh and rake my fingers through my too-long hair.

I leave, closing the door behind me, and fasten the padlock. We don’t own this garage. No one knows who does. It’s the same place I used to come sit and smoke with Abram, and later would come hide away with Dasha before she left. Her father got a job in Tomsk, Siberia, and they left years ago.

I head on home, wondering what state I’ll find my mother in. Pushing open the door to our small apartment, I smell it before I see it. Vomit and maybe piss.

She’s passed out on the sofa, and the bottle of homemade vodka is mostly empty.

Fuck. I can’t deal with her today. I should leave her lying in her own damn piss. I don’t. Instead, I haul her up from the couch and carry her into the bedroom. I strip off her clothes and wipe her down with a towel before putting her into bed. She doesn’t deserve my care, but she’s still my mother. She gave birth to me so without her, I wouldn’t have a life.

At this rate, she’ll be dead in a few years, if not a few months.

When I’ve cleaned up the living room, come bedroom, I sling on a jacket and head back out. I can’t stand being in the dingy space a moment longer. She’ll either sleep it off or choke on her own vomit, and sue me if there’s part of me that secretly hopes for the latter. She’s a millstone around my neck. She never protected me, never cared, but some sick sense of duty keeps me looking after her.

My uncle doesn’t have anything for me to do this evening, but I have some money, and I might go burn it in a bar. I broke up with my girlfriend last week, which probably isn’t helping my shitty mood. The only girl I’ve ever fucked. Not from lack of opportunity, but